


Up the Garden Path

by Dementian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Medical Torture, Past Child Abuse, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 407,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/pseuds/Dementian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate for a chance at happiness and unable to see another way out, Thomas Barrow begins a precarious affair with Daisy Mason. The result is an existential crisis, the likes of which has the rest of the staff praying for the swift return of Jimmy Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Business of Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

> This work will stay mostly canon compliant save for a few changes (which shall become clear as the work progresses). There will be scenes with dialogue from the actual series, so obviously that's not of my creation. This is my first work in the Downton Abbey fandom even though I've been a member for a while and really enjoy the works so far submitted. I do try to keep my works historically accurate, as best as I can (it's not exactly easy), but I may stumble from time to time. Have pity on me, I'm only one (obsessed) fan. This is an eventual Thommy fic... we just have to get there first. Hold onto you hats, folks! We're going to have a bumpy, BUMPY ride.

There had been a time, in what felt like an age and a half ago when it had been Thomas wielding the scalpel and pressing into the abused flesh of a wounded man instead of the other way around. They’d cried out for their mothers, their sisters, their lovers; some had even cried for Thomas if only to make him stop. But there was no time to stop in a war… no time to comfort the wounded. There was only the steady march forward and the casual glance back when someone fell or died. That had been Thomas’ mistake with Edward Courteney. He’d forgotten one couldn’t save people in a war, nor win. All one could do was survive and Thomas was relatively good at surviving… or he had been until Jimmy-with-the-fucking-hair-Kent came along and trounced everything up real good and proper. 

Now Thomas was the one holding back screams of agony with a freshly dug crater in his arse and a hard wooden chair beneath him for cold comfort as he slumped at the servants table and waited for the end to come. At least the soldiers in the trenches had been laying on their backs when they’d suffered; Thomas was having to sit upright because god forbid he slump at the table in front of Carson (who was giving him the beady eye every now and then as if to remind him _‘I’m watching you, you degenerate homosexual’)._

Really; as if Thomas didn’t know. 

But it was more than Carson, it was more than the chair and how it hurt his arse; it was the entire servant’s hall that set Thomas on edge and made the nerves in his backside sing with fierce and throbbing pain every time he attempted to shift in his seat. The electric lights were too garish, the food smelt too strong, the conversation was overbearingly loud and he was drowning in it all like a trapped man. All he could was clutch at the arms of his chair and lean his head ever so slightly to the right where Phyllis Baxter in all her catholic-guilt-glory was keeping him quiet company in his bitter convalescence. He hadn’t touched his plate; he couldn’t really… she didn’t seem to mind. She ate timidly, not wanting to move too fast through her meal of turkey and roasted vegetables. Beneath the heavily scrubbed table out of sight she kept her hand on Thomas’ knee. It was a solitary tribute to his pain, a reminder that she was there though Thomas was certainly not going to forget that anytime soon. Even if Dr. Clarkson had dosed him with morphine instead of letting him go cold-turkey, it would be difficult to forget how Phyllis had walked him to the hospital with a firm clutch on his arm lest he turn tail and try to make a run back for the Abbey. It would likewise be difficult to forget how Phyllis had glared at him till he’d come clean to Dr. Clarkson (an ugly twist of fate to put his life in the hands of the man who had killed Edward as far as he was concerned). 

He had a fever, and he knew it. He sweat excessively despite the permeating chill of autumn just outside the back door, and his head throbbed as he eyed his water glass longingly. It felt like a kilometer away from him in his daze. He wanted to reach out, take it in hand and drink deeply from it if only to quench his sore throat yet he was so weak and fatigued that he feared he might drop the damn glass and _that_ wouldn’t do with Carson glaring at him every so often. No… the less attention he drew to himself the better, even if that involved him sitting in a perpetual sauna. God, he’d give anything just to take his bow tie off- or better yet to undo his suspenders which were digging into his shoulders and making his trousers feel uncomfortably tight round the waist. Course, if he were to take either action in front of Carson, Thomas would promptly be hauled away by the men in white coats at Carson’s request. It was better to simply sit until he could get away. As it stood, every second Thomas sat at the table was one second closer he felt to vomiting in his lap or passing out on the cold stone floor at his feet. Now that he thought about it, laying on the floor might not be such a bad idea if it wouldn’t stain his livery and cause Mr. Carson to go into cardiac arrest. At least he’d feel cooler and be out of the lights.

It took him a minute to register the fact that Phyllis was speaking to him, her soft voice like butter dripping into his ear and swimming in his lower brain. He inclined his head even more in her direction, finding her frail and frayed as usual with stray wisps of dark brown hair coming loose near her small ears and crow’s feet at her eyes. They were almond shaped- so lovely, he contemplated- he stared at her until she spoke again and he understood that he had to reply lest he look rude. 

Wouldn’t do to look rude towards a woman who’d see his bare arse. 

“Did the doctor give you anything to take?” Phyllis asked, looking him up and down as though he were a pill all on his own. After all the bullshit he’d put her through, he really was. 

“An antibiotic.” Thomas managed to reply, hoarse and keeping his voice to a whisper. God help him if he were overheard amid the dinner table. There was no proper way to say ‘a doctor dug a hole in my arse’ to his fellow workers and frankly Thomas did not have the energy to lie anymore. He didn’t have the energy for anything, come to think of it… but god did he want that water. 

He swallowed again, and braved to take his water glass in hand if only to manage a stiff short swallow. “Said I should eat somethin’ before I take it… but I don’t think I can manage much.” He looked down at his still untouched plate of turkey and vegetables with trepidation, “Maybe I should hold off a day till I can work up an appetite.” 

“No.” Phyllis disagreed, shaking her head; Thomas set his water glass too close to the end of heavily scrubbed table and she paused to push it further in with slim fingers worn from mending lace and livery alike, “That won’t do at all. You need to take it now, tonight, the sooner the better… try and eat a roll, something based in bread.” 

Phyllis glanced up, found a basket of rolls waiting for her mid table, and wordless took one to place it on Thomas’ plate. This was rather out of order, for one servant to offer food to another so openly at the table, but weirder things had happened here (such as the spin with the Oujia board or the time William and Thomas had lost it and gone to fisticuffs mid meal) so Carson couldn’t complain. 

“You need to eat something that’ll fill your stomach- bread is simple.” Phyllis murmured, her eyes flickering from Thomas’ pale and sweaty face to the untouched roll at the edge of his plate. “Maybe some chamomile tea will help.” 

Thomas looked down at the little buttered roll, at all it stood for and all it offered. _‘Sustenance’_ , it cried out, _‘eat me and be full’_ , —but Thomas could never be full, not really anyway, and even if he did eat the roll what good would it do him in the end? It wouldn’t fill the hole in his arse nor bring Jimmy back to Downton. It wouldn’t make him look to women for company or pleasure, and it wouldn’t help the other servants to enjoy him any more. 

“… I can’t see what good it’ll do.” He mumbled.  
Phyllis squeezed his knee beneath the table. In a minuscule moment of weakness, Thomas’ chin quivered. 

Suddenly two hands were upon him; she’d abandoned her meal altogether to rub the arm closest to her in a methodical but firm way. She looked up at him, perhaps expecting him to bark at her, but Thomas was officially chock full out of bark. The most he had in him now were huffs of hot air and those were in full reserve for bare emergencies… such as what Mr. Carson would say if he caught Phyllis rubbing his arm like they were chummy. He doubted he could come up with an excuse or a quip in time, though. 

Still, it felt nice to have someone rubbing his arm as if they gave a damn.  
But it brought a question to mind. 

“Why are you so kind to me, Phyllis?” Thomas reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing the roll only to draw back again as if scalded. Could he eat did? Should he dare? What if he took a bite and puked right in front of everyone? 

Would he even give a damn if he did? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done worse. 

He took the roll in hand, tearing off a small piece of it and chewing on it absent mindedly. Christ, it tasted like cardboard— hardly Mrs. Patmore’s fault though, he was certain. He’d been eating her cooking for just shy of fourteen years and she’d been yet to disappoint. Even if she had, Thomas wasn’t going to be the one to inform her; the warmth of her kitchen was a reassuring spot in an otherwise cold and stoic existence downstairs. Getting chucked out of it would be like getting kicked out of heaven. 

But heaven had already walked out of its own accord because heaven couldn’t resist temptation when a car apparently “broke down” and a succubus needed some company. 

Phyllis regarded him for a moment more, noting how despite his fingers danced over the bread he seldom brought pieces to his mouth. She finally spoke when a particularly loud conversation broke over the table regarding the disappearance of Michael Gregson and where he could possibly be in Germany. Thomas had to lean in close to hear properly, keeping his eyes low lest he have to catch the gaze of the acerbic Mr. Bates or the bitter Mr. Moseley who were both looking at him like he was satan incarnate. 

“You need to learn how to be kind, Thomas.” Phyllis advised, “To yourself most of all.” And with this she patted his arm. 

Well that was utter bullshit and a waste of his time; Thomas knew damn well how to be kind. He’d been kind to Philip, Edward, and Jimmy… fat lot of good it had ever done him but still. He’d been kind. He’d even been kind to Daisy and Mrs. Hughes… sometimes Anna. I mean, really. Phyllis acted like he was a Neanderthal without the slightest concept of human compassion. He knew how to be kind. He didn’t need to _learn_ what he already _knew_. 

His roadblock came in showing it and getting away with it. Christ when he’d secured William’s sick bed back in the abbey after returning wounded from war people had looked at him like he had two heads. He wasn’t exactly applauded for his charity acts. 

“Try.” She murmured in his ear, and Thomas realized he’d only taken two bites out of the roll in his hand. Or rather, he’d only pinched off two pieces and swallowed them after a pause. 

He fumbled with sweaty hands, but even as he touched the roll again for a third pinch, he felt his grip go slack.  
What was the goddamn point anymore? 

His strength was faded, his resolve broken, and he doubted that if Carson were to comment on his behavior now he would be able to do anything but weep at the table like a beaten child just as he’d nearly done four years ago the morning after he’d gone round the twist and screwed up royally with Jimmy. He swallowed, but his throat was hot and his tongue thick in his mouth. He blinked, but his eyes were fogging over— he was tired. So fucking tired. What he’d give just to take off his bow tie… just to undo one clip of his suspenders. 

Just to cry like a child and admit defeat in private without everyone on the men’s hall knowing he’d screwed up _again_. 

He opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to say what needed to be said. He feared if he spoke he might weep and wouldn’t that be fun to endure in public? 

“… It’s no use.” He finally managed; the roll remained untouched in his lap.  
And Phyllis was rubbing his arm again. Damn (kind) woman.

He closed his eyes to the garish light of the servant’s hall and focused on the touch, focused on the kindness within it, and wondered at how nice it felt. How sublime, to be enjoyed and appreciated by another human being instead of merely being tolerated or outright despised. 

And yet even now in this moment he could see in his inner mind how many times he’d bullied or belittled Phyllis in the hallway or the boot room. How he’d terrified her simply because he was terrified himself. How he’d shoved her away in every sense of the word and bit at her whenever she’d tried to offer him a helping hand. He was less of a man and more of an animal where she was concerned. Yet here she was, hand on his knee and arm… caring for him as if they were friends instead of barely functioning co-workers. 

“I’m so sorry.” the words fell from his mouth without thought or prompting, “For everything.” 

For a moment she did not reply, merely rubbing his arm in a soothing pattern of circles that he focused on in his feverish haze. 

“Thank you.” She said, and he could tell from her tone that she meant it, “I accept your apology and I appreciate it. But I’m more concerned with you getting something down so you can take your medicine.” 

It just so happened, because God was a huge fan of Thomas Barrow and enjoyed showering him with tidbits of love and pleasure, that the conversation involving Michael Gregson was brought to an abrupt and tidy end by Mr. Carson leaving a gap in the air for Mrs. Hughes to hear _‘so you can take your medicine’_. This really oughtn’t to have surprised Thomas given that she was only on his left side and could easily have partaken in his conversation with Ms. Baxter had she so chose, but Thomas was muddled with fever and couldn’t have known his arse from page eight at that moment if pressed. 

At least Phyllis had accepted his apology. That was something. 

“What’s this?” Mrs. Hughes turned in her seat a little, and regarded how Thomas had feigned from touching his dinner along with his oddly slumped composure. She dabbed her chin with her napkin before setting it in her lap, her gentle eyes narrowing with worry as she spotted the barely touched roll in his lap. “Are you ill, Mr. Barrow?” 

Thomas didn’t have the strength to reply. It would have meant lying, a back story, and evidence to be plucked up that he simply didn’t have the time or convenience to locate anymore. He wanted so badly to tell the truth, to turn to Mrs. Hughes and explain to her just how horribly his day had gone. He wanted her to know; for them all to know; for someone to hear and give a damn. For someone to press upon him with sympathy instead of crude irritation. Mr. Bates had once said of late that he didn’t care what Thomas thought on any subject, and so Thomas had replied in kind to him later when Bates had suggested he’d never looked worse. In truth he’d have given anything to tell Bates the entire sorry tale, to hear from another man (albeit an older man who was straight and married) what in the hell he ought to do. 

Someone needed to take the wheel and promptly. Thomas’ driving was worse than Matthew Crawley’s and _that_ was saying something. 

Phyllis was as good a driver as any: “Mr. Barrow’s not been well lately.” she supplied, speaking directly to Mrs. Hughes with hushed tones in the hope that they did not carry to their other dining companions. Mrs. Hughes did not look surprised to hear her say it, merely amazed that she should be the one to pick up the torch and help Thomas in his time of need. “He received some medicine to take this afternoon. The trouble is you have to eat before you take it and he’s not feeling well enough to do so.” 

Mrs. Hughes made a noise of knowing, her eyes flickering over his sickly complexion dabbled with sweat. His fingers trembled as he lightly clenched the roll in his lap, waiting for her to ask questions he could not answer. _‘Why are you sick? What on earth did you do that for? You stuck WHAT in your arse? My goodness you are a depraved bastard, Mr. Barrow!’_

“I see.” Mrs. Hughes finally said, taking a sip of cooling tea before carrying on, “ I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Perhaps you’d like to lie down; we could send Daisy up with a tray.” 

He could have kissed her, truly. The idea of laying down on a soft mattress (compared to this chair a felled log would be better) was heavenly to Thomas, and a closed door meant he could take off his bowtie— undo his suspenders. 

“That might be for the best.” Phyllis added, leaning in to gently whisper, “You have to admit the bed would be easier to sit on than that chair.” 

The wonders of having a woman know what his arse looked like; would they ever end? 

Thomas said nothing to either woman, taking the turn in conversation to mean he could rise up and leave, and so he attempted to do so with every single fibre of strength he could muster. Talk at the table drained a little as roving eyes caught sight of him staggering and stumbling- Mr and Mrs. Bates in particular were regarding him warily. Thomas paid them no mind, his brain stuttering with the simple phrase _‘Stay on your feet, stay on your feet, and if you fall for christ’s sake do it on your left side’._

There was a hand on his lower arm; Phyllis had reached out on instinct to support him. Thomas appreciated it, truly he did, but it was only dragging more attention to the fact that he couldn’t get out of a fucking chair and Mrs. Hughe’s alarmed expression was doing nothing to help ease the situation. If Mrs. Hughes asked questions, Mr. Carson would follow and Thomas could not deal with Mr. Carson right now. 

As it stood Carson just glared at him, paying him as little mind as possible. 

Thomas caught Phyllis’ eye; she let go of his arm. 

It was a matter of navigating through the maze of chairs, and Thomas found himself reaching out to every object he passed in order to steady himself. Each step felt like fire in his arse, the stretch of the sutures making him want to yowl in pain till he clamped his jaw shut in an iron lock to keep from even uttering a wince. He’d just made it around the back of Carson’s chair and was almost at the door to the stairwell when Mr. Bates, in all his subtle glory, turned in his chair and casually remarked, “You have a limp.” 

Thomas was not a violent man; truly he wasn’t. If he was, Bates would have been in a shallow grave back in 1918 and Thomas would be in prison. As of this moment though, with a bleeding hole in his arse and a shoddy view of the world, Thomas was ready to turn on Bates with the carving knife Mrs. Patmore had put out with the roasted turkey. He wondered if Mr. Bates would mind terribly if Thomas slashed him at the neck? Really their relationship could sink no lower at this point, he might as well just do what he wanted. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Phyllis spoke up again.  
Saint Phyllis; Thomas would have to worship at her alter later. He wondered what homage she might like… perhaps bobbles of white thread for her ladyship’s lace and pictures of Mr. Moseley in a bathing suit. Thomas shuddered at the thought and left the hall, not even bothering with a reply for Bates or a thanks for Phyllis. He had five flights of stairs to climb, and he wasn’t looking forward to a single step of it. 

~*~

With Thomas’ retreating back came the rise in conversation once more. Now there as talk of a new cinema at the table, as well as the possibility of an autumn fair to look forward too in Thirsk or Rippon. Yet at the higher end of the table, the vacant seat was suddenly more noticeable than ever as Phyllis drummed light fingers upon the scrubbed table and furrowed her brow deep in thought. If she were honest with herself, she had no idea how Thomas was going to manage to climb all those stairs… perhaps she ought to try and help him up at least a few flights. Then again, he’d probably decline her help and scowl her all the way back down the steps. 

“Why does Thomas have a limp?” Mr. Bates asked Phyllis, glaring at her sullenly from across the table. He still considered her a menace after speaking to the police, not that she could blame him. 

“Who says he does?” Phyllis offered, too light in tone to be considered angry but firm in her words; she would not be revealing to Bates why Thomas was limping. For one, it went against her conscience. For two, she was certain Thomas would murder her if she did and at this point the poor man had nothing to lose. _‘Do not tempt a desperate man’_ her mother had once warned her when they’d passed a gambling hall in Stockport. Phyllis would hold true to that advice till the day she died, particularly where Thomas Barrow was concerned. Give him an inch and he’d take a mile. Pound for a penny as Joseph Moseley had so wisely stated once. She glanced at him next to Anna and gave him a warm smile. 

Joseph returned it at once. They understood one another in their frailty. 

“Forgive me if I’m not an expert in the matter of limps.” Bates growled. It seemed he would not be put off. 

“…Thomas has been very very ill.” Phyllis said pointedly, raising her eyebrows slightly to convey the unspoken phrase of _‘and we won’t be talking about it’_ “To ill to work, if I’m being honest.” 

“Then why hasn’t he spoken up about it before now? He’s looked haggard for weeks.” Mrs. Hughes was growing agitated, and once again Phyllis could not blame her. As house keeper, she was often privy to the secret life of servants. No doubt she’d tried to squirrel the truth out of Thomas and failed. Incredible how the transparent closet was the only thing transparent about Thomas… the one secret he ought to be able to conceal was the one thing he simply couldn’t hide. No wonder he kept his guns close to his chest. Phyllis imagined he might have a knife stashed under his pillow in the far fetched event that someone came for him in the middle of the night. Thomas Barrow was the human image of anxious terror, make no mistake.

But there was more to it, and Phyllis could sympathize. Thomas’ face when he’d dropped his trousers and had shown her the horrible pulsing wound on his backside had been one of absolute shame. He’d not wanted to show her, he’d been damned determined not to show her… and still he’d had no choice in the end but to ask her for help. For someone as proud as Thomas, such actions were not taken lightly. When they’d first entered that bathroom, she hadn’t known what to expect, perhaps imagining another shake down after the police’s abrupt departure and to be fair she’d been ready to smack him across the face for his whole involvement in the matter… but when he’d opened that box of needles and pills she known immediately that he’d reached the end of his rope. 

And then she’d seen his face drop, and all her anger had fled. 

_“Help me.”_ he’d whispered in terror. She wondered if the shock had shown on her face.  
She supposed she’d thought him a cad still, in spite of his agony and fear. He’d reminded her at times of Peter Coyle, of how he’d used her and abused her, and left her shaking in the halls of her old establishment whenever she didn’t do as he’d asked. 

But then Thomas had put his hand on the door of the bathroom as she’d made to leave and drawn an incredible line in the sand between himself and Coyle. A line of decency, kindness, true regret, and humble awareness. 

“He was ashamed.” Phyllis said simply, feeling very sorry even as she admitted it.  
She would not be forgetting that line in the sand. 

“Ashamed?” Mr. Carson spoke up, his loud and lumbering drawl drawing quite a bit of attention from servants down the table. “Of what, pray tell?” 

“It’s… complicated, Mr. Carson.” Phyllis stuttered, eager to avoid lying to anyone if she could stand it but knowing full well the truth was out, “ It’s private.” 

Carson eyed her warily as he resumed carving his slice of turkey. 

“If there’s been any more indecency in this house-“ He warned. 

“It’ s nothing like that Mr. Carson.” Phyllis cut him off before he could go on. She hadn’t been here for “the incident” as the other servants like to refer to it, but she knew full well to what he was implying. In lieu of Thomas’ suffering on the subject, she found none of it funny. She didn’t need to be a hall boy or a house maid to hear how they snickered behind Thomas’ back. How they pressed jibes and called him foul names when no one else was looking. 

“Will you tell me what it’s like then?” Mrs. Hughes offered, her tone gentle and understanding as she leaned in with Thomas’ empty chair between them. 

Phyllis regarded her, and remembered how she’d spoken with such clarity and calmness despite learning in the worst way possible that Phyllis was a reformed thief. If anyone in this house would have sympathy, would understand, it would be Mrs. Hughes. Of that she was absolutely certain. 

“I don’t think he felt he had anyone he could go to.” Phyllis murmured, inclining her head a little so that Thomas’s vacant chair served as their middle ground, “He finally broke in resolve and came to me.” 

“Is that why he wanted to speak with you this afternoon, then?” Mrs. Hughes asked, her eyebrows raising a little. 

“It is.” Phyllis confirmed, “He… revealed to me the truth of the matter-“ there was no polite way to say ‘he showed me his backside’ at the table, “and said he didn’t know what to do. He was too scared to think of the doctor I suppose, even though that was the obvious conclusion. Panic can cloud your mind, I guess.” 

“Panic?” Mrs. Hughes repeated the word, and now her own anxiety was back as her weary eyes roved up and down the servant’s table. Phyllis wondered what she was looking for, if she imagined Thomas was in trouble again with another ‘incident’ as was trying to find the guilty party. If she was, she’d be at it for a long time. Phyllis highly doubted there was another gay man in the county, never the less Downton Abbey. Then again maybe she was just making sure no one was listening. “What’s wrong with him for heaven’s sake?” 

Phyllis looked down at the seat of the vacant chair, pursing her lips into a thin line. 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hughes.” Phyllis whispered as softly as she could manage, eager to keep their viewing party to as thin a number as possible, “But I don’t think he’d like me saying. It’s very personal, and certainly not table talk.” 

Mrs. Hughes gave a heavy sigh and sat back.  
“In that case will you tell me _later?”_ she offered, inclining her head towards her office down the hall. Phyllis shook her head. If she had it her way she’d be taking this particular secret to her grave. 

“So what did you do?” 

It seemed their party was, despite her best efforts, larger than she’d accounted for, and Phyllis looked back up across the table to see Mr. Bates waiting expectantly with Anna likewise hanging onto every word. They were an odd pair when it came to Thomas; she couldn’t make out whether they were friends or foes. Thomas had, by his own admission, assured her Anna at least was not an enemy… but Mr. Bates and Thomas were far from friendly with one another. 

Some days it was lucky if they were even civil; the breakfast spread could turn into world war two at the drop of a dime if the pair of them were in the right mood (meaning Thomas had not had his second cup of coffee yet and Mr. Bates’ leg was acting up from the weather). 

She could not lie to Mr. Bates, nor could she lie to Mrs. Hughes who was waiting expectantly to hear her answer along with Anna and even Joseph Moseley who was watching her with cautious concern. 

Sweet Joseph, who had only ever been kind to her. 

“I made him go to the doctor.” Phyllis explained, adding “Practically had to drag him there” under her breath. “Dr. Clarkson set him right, and gave him a medicine to take. An antibiotic of some type I should imagine.” 

“He’ll need to eat plenty to stomach it.” Anna spoke up, eyeing Thomas’ barely touched plate. 

“The problem is he’s too ill to eat.” Phyllis agreed, and Anna made a noise of discontent as she looked to Mr. Bates. 

“Ginger might help.” Anna said after a moment of pause. 

“I thought chamomile tea might be easier on the stomach.” Phyllis mused, “Ginger would be very useful too.” 

“I’m sorry to hear he’s been so ill.” Anna sighed, lacing her fingers together as she once again glanced at Mr. Bates. She did that often; checking his face for changing moods or reactions to her words, “I knew something was wrong.” 

“He looks like hell.” Mr. Bates grumbled, still far from sympathy but not entirely without concern. 

“He’s been through hell.” Phyllis murmured to the table. There wasn’t much else she could say in lieu of the memory of Thomas wrenching the bathroom door open sobbing like a child. She’d taken no pleasure from witnessing that breakdown; it hadn’t been meant for public viewing. She wondered how scared he must have been then. How he might have begun to cry even as he drew the syringe and injected the unsterilized saline. 

“You’re kind.” Joseph spoke up, and Phyllis looked down the table to smile at him as he pushed his peas lightly across his plate and gave her a jittery grin. “To offer him any aid at all after what he’s done to you.” 

“He certainly hasn’t been your friend.” Anna agreed. 

Phyllis frowned. 

“He has.” Phyllis corrected them both, and Joseph looked quite surprised. He stopped pushing his peas and waited for her to explain. “Thomas doesn’t understand kindness; it’s rarely been shown to him. But he has been a friend to me…as much of a friend as he knows how to be. And I don’t expect anyone to understand but he is a very brave person to me.” 

How could she call him anything but, after all the pain he’d put himself through to ensure his goal? 

Anna seemed to find this funny, for her lips twisted in a small grin, “Brave?” she asked. 

“Maybe he’s been taking lessons from Mr. Moseley?” Phyllis offered, eager to deflect questions if she could. It was one thing to have Thomas call her daft for insisting he was brave; it would be another thing entirely to hear it from someone else. 

“Now you’re really crackers.” Joseph joked, and Phyllis could not help but smile as she took another sip of tea. 

Mrs. Hughes smiled at her, and Phyllis caught her eye as she spoke, “You’re a kind soul to offer him aid.” 

Once again, Phyllis had an inkling Mrs. Hughes might understand her more than anyone for insisting Thomas was brave. She had a feeling Mrs. Hughes had seen that bravery too… particularly where Jimmy Kent was concerned. 

~*~ 

It wasn’t abnormal for Daisy to do the odd job around the house, even with her being the personal assistant to Mrs. Patmore, but she still found it strange that her newest job should have her going up to the men’s wing of the sleeping quarters. Funny how one could live in a house for twelve years and never venture into particular areas of it, but there had always been an aura of taboo about the separate sleeping arrangements. All her life, a glass pane and a firm lock had separated her from naked men god knows what else, but now that she was finally on the other end of the divider she found the entire affair to be highly disappointing. There were no secrets to be had here, merely more hard washed floors and bare walls divided by plain black doors with little name tags just the same as the ones on the women’s side. No half naked men, no debauchery. The scullery maids were in for a heavy let down when they pressed her for information later that night. 

Mrs. Hughes had sent her up with a tray for Thomas, and for some reason she’d insisted on ginger biscuits and chamomile tea being involved. Something about Thomas being ill and it being good for the stomach. Mrs. Patmore had been quite perturbed to hear that Thomas was ill, stating “I wonder what’s got him under the weather, it’s not like Thomas to fall ill. A bomb couldn’t usually shake him .” 

This was an accurate assessment for in all the years that Daisy had known Thomas, she’d never once seen him fall sick, even when half the house went down with a seasonal cold or allergies. He seemed the kind of man who could take a bullet and barely be bothered; given the state of his left hand, that assumption could eerily be pronounced accurate. Whatever it was that had taken Thomas out at the knees would have to be foul and furious. Ginger and chamomile might be wasted; they’d be better off getting heavy drugs from Dr. Clarkson. Maybe a water hose from the fire chief, or better yet a good lye scrubbing. 

So it was that with a plate of ginger biscuits from the pantry and a small personal pot of chamomile tea, Daisy climbed the five flights of stairs to the men’s corridor, diverging from her normal route halfway up for the first time in her life to take the left wing instead of the right to the women’s. The attics were cold during this time of year, but she didn’t mind. She was sweating from her work in the kitchen where the stoves never quit and the boiler was always on. Her mauve dress was riddled with soot, stains, and sweat; her hair was coming undone in the late hour. She might look a right state, but she doubted Thomas would give an ounce of attention to her appearance. 

He never had before. 

Thomas’ room was at the very end of the hall, closest to the women’s side which Daisy found slightly odd seeing as the same room on the opposite side of the door was never used due to Mrs. Hughes not wanting anyone to give into temptation. She’d have thought Mr. Carson would keep the same view, but clearly Thomas could be trusted in his eyes, and so she walked to the very end of the hall before propping the heavy tray upon her round hip and reaching up to the door. Light was issuing from beneath it, a sign that he was inside. 

“Thomas?” Daisy rapt gently upon the door with blistered knuckles, “I have a tray for you.” 

For a moment there was nothing, and Daisy wondered if Thomas was in his room at all or perhaps up the hallway in the lavatory, but then the audible groan of a mattress moving issued from beyond the door and Daisy heard the slow methodical shuffling of weary feet. The door cracked open to reveal Thomas- at least, it logically had to be Thomas. Yet in her twelve years of knowing him Daisy had yet to ever see him in such as state as this. He was almost a stranger.

The Thomas Barrow of her twelve years was a well groomed, slick and oiled machine that ran of stoic expressions and bitter contempt. What he did behind his own door after hours was his own business and usually Daisy wouldn’t care. But the Thomas Barrow before her now was a completely different animal and it stunned her momentarily as she gaped up at his disheveled state. She nearly lost her grip on the dinner tray. 

His hair, normally slicked back and immaculately parted, was ruffled and limp from its pomade hold to hang in a heavy fringe upon his forehead and hold a peculiar angle at the back. His once cold, calm eyes were now devoid of any emotion save for pain, sunken into his face and left there to rot beneath heavy purple bags. Sweat drenched from his temples and neck. Daisy was given an unceremonious view of his chest and arms as it suddenly hit her with the force of a brick to the face that Thomas was not wearing his shirt and instead bore only an undershirt that left very little to the imagination. Had he not been clearly fevered and lacking his mind, Daisy would have thought him trying to impress indecency upon her… but with his suspenders limp about his knees and his shirt chucked (when he’d never so much as shifted his tie in front of her before) it was obvious Thomas was in need of a break. 

Daisy supposed they all needed their breaks. She’d just never seen _him_ take one. 

…Had he always possessed such profound arm muscles? She found herself ogling them in spite of herself. Perhaps the scullery maids would get a good story after all. 

Thomas glanced down at the tray she held, and reached out with rubbery limbs to take it from her; a few of the dishes rattle in his weak grip. 

“Thank you.” He said. With an easy air that could only come from a life balancing dishes in service, Thomas left the tray perch on his jutting hip bone as he gripped it loosely with his good hand. Despite his lack of proper shirt, Daisy was intrigued to see he was still wearing his glove. She wondered if he took it off when he went to sleep. 

Daisy could not help herself. The words tumbled from her lips like water from a spout so that they gushed forward before she could clench them back, “You look _awful.”_

“I know.” Thomas agreed with a bitter air, but he gave her a wry grin that reminded her of the old days when he’d seemed to know the answer to everything or at least the things she’d asked, “Maybe it’s for the best, though.” 

“Why do you say that?” Daisy asked; she’d never enjoyed being sick. 

“I was never very nice on the inside. Now I look it on the outside.” 

Daisy didn’t know what to say to that. She supposed in a way it might be true, but she doubted it was the full truth and frankly she only dealt in full truths… not half lies like Thomas. 

“What’s gotten you so ill?” Daisy asked. She hoped it wasn’t catching. 

Thomas contemplated his answer, looking up at the darkened ceiling of the hallway before glancing back down at Daisy with a wistful grimace, “I’ve been sick for a long time.” He admitted, and Daisy noted how hoarse his voice was, “It’s why I’m so unkind.” 

Daisy could not resist the barb rising within her; she didn’t like excuses, “Even all that time ago with William? Were you sick then?” 

But Thomas did not bat an eyelash, instead nodding solemnly as he continued to grimace at her, “And before that.” 

But this she simply couldn’t believe. No one could be so sick for so long, and Thomas had been able to enlist in the war for heaven’s sake. Armies didn’t take sick men. Daisy rolled her eyes, regarding him with dull irritation as he continued to smile down at her in that weird somber way. It would almost seem kind if he wasn’t lying through his teeth to her. 

“That’s a long time to be sick.” Daisy regarded. Thomas blinked. 

“It’s no excuse for the pain I put him through.” 

It wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it that gave Daisy pause. A strange quavering quiet that spoke of many nights in solitude and regret. The kind of words said when no other words were left. She’d never heard Thomas speak in such a way… so frankly and honestly with no regards for the consequences or the pains. 

It was a truth from a fountain that had only ever given half-lies. A gem. 

“Then why did you put him through it?” she asked, hoping another gem might fall through.

She was not disappointed.  
“… I suppose I envied him.” 

She’d always suspected it, but had never imagined that Thomas would say it out loud. William had been kind and gentle, and everyone had preferred him over Thomas back when they’d been the footmen of the house… but it was more than that. There had been something about William that Thomas had seemed to regard as personally offensive. It wasn’t his personality, nor his status (how could it be when they were both footmen). It was something else.. and Daisy had never figured out what in the six years since William’s death. Despite Thomas’ obvious good looks and clear intellectual advantage, his cruelty towards William had been the damning blow in his relationship with Daisy as far as she was concerned. But Thomas wasn’t being cruel to her now and if she were honest with herself he hadn’t been very cruel at all since he’d nearly been sacked without a reference. He’d been… mild. Quiet. There were even times (particularly where Jimmy Kent had been concerned) when Thomas had been happy; almost normal. 

Why? 

And she could relate, truly, when it came to envying someone. After all, she’d envied Ivy when she’d been on her heels in the kitchen. The pair of them had shot more sparks at one another than a blade being sharpened, and though they’d parted as friends Daisy still felt quite a bit of resentment towards Ivy. Her fair skin, her auburn hair… 

“I suppose I can relate.” Daisy admitted gently, knowing it must be costing Thomas’ pride quite a lot to be honest with her in regards to jealousy, “I were never very nice to Ivy.. because of Alfred.” 

Thomas’ smile turned tender if not sympathetic, and his voice reflected that when he spoke.  
“Still got you down?” He murmured. 

Daisy pursed her lips briefly glancing at the floor, “Sometimes.” There was no point in lying, “I’m nearly thirty and I have no one. Sometimes I think I’ll never have a life of my own. I’m too plain for it, I’m not beautiful. Ivy just made it worse because she was.” 

“Daisy you are beautiful.” 

He said it so simply, so easily, as if it hadn’t required a thought or an effort and Daisy was rendered momentarily speechless as Thomas regarded her surprised face with a bitter smile. 

“You’re also beautiful in your soul.” He mumbled, and with a finger he gestured to her eyes, “It shines out. Through your eyes.” 

“What d’you mean?” Daisy asked, for she’d never heard Thomas utter such sweet things to anyone; indeed she hadn’t thought him capable of it before now… at least not without whiskey involved. 

“… Sometimes what people feel on the inside shines out through their eyes.” Thomas supplied, musing aloud as he dropped his hand limply to his side, “Your warmth and kindness, it shines out. That’s a beautiful thing. I’ve always admired it.” 

Her face felt hot all of a sudden, despite being away from the stove range and the draft of the upstairs corridor. 

“Why are you saying this now?” She demanded, their embroiled pasts unspoken between them like a minefield laced with barbed wire. Every step was taken with caution. Every word was heavy with meaning. Her chest felt incredibly tight, as if her corset were bound harder than usual. She could feel her heart fluttering in her breast, and prayed Thomas wouldn’t be able to see the pulse jumping in her neck. How desperately stupid of her, to crave affection and attention so much that two kind words from a normally surly man had left her aflutter. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, and Daisy could tell in his eyes that it was the truth. He suddenly looked incredibly lost, as if he did not know himself nor her. As if he could not remember their relationship, or what they were supposed to be to one another, “I’m not… myself I suppose. Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m just—” 

Thomas shook his head.  
Daisy waited with baited breath. 

“I always wanted to say how beautiful you were.” Thomas murmured, looking down at her with guilt, “But I never did. Because I didn’t think you’d care to hear it. After everything… William… the war…” He broke off, his expression haunted, “I was a bastard to you.” 

Once again, the humbling honesty in his eyes rendered her face flushed, and Daisy looked down at her plum skirt to finger her threadbare apron with care. For a minute she played with a hole by the spoon pocket, unsure of what to say. 

“It’s alright.” She finally said in soft tones after a good moments pause, “Sometimes we act mean just to get attention.” 

She glanced up and caught Thomas’ eyes. She was amazed by how blue they were, like a sea during a storm. 

“You have me pegged.”  
He even offered her the tiniest grin and she reveled in it, glad that she’d made him smile when he was clearly so low. It was likewise incredibly rewarding to hear him confirm that he did things to get attention instead of for the thrill of being unkind as others might have imagined. 

Thomas’ smile faded all too quickly though; he rubbed his jaw absently, “I shouldn’t bother you.” 

“You’re not.” She assured him. Indeed she wished he’d bother her more often if he would only call her ‘beautiful’ again. 

Another beat of silence, another question bubbling up from within. 

“D’you really think I’m beautiful?” She whispered, amazed by the very concept. She’d never been called beautiful in all her life. Not even Mr. Levinson’s valet had called her beautiful, and he’d been ready to buy her a boat ticket to America. 

“I always have.” Thomas assured her, and his tone was so gentle, so warm, that Daisy’s racing heart skipped a beat. She hitched a tiny breath. 

“Thank you.” Daisy said, for how could she ever convey all that his words had meant to her. To know that someone out there thought she was beautiful… that one man on earth imagined her to be pretty. She could kiss him if it wouldn’t give him the wrong impression. 

Then again… would it be a wrong impression? 

Daisy shook her head, her mind suddenly buzzing as if bees had nested within her brain. 

“I wish you were nice like this all the time.” She joked, trying to lighten the mood again, but it didn’t seem to work for Thomas just kept staring at her in a somber hue. Her heart began to sink as she realized this was far from a surface level sorrow. Maybe he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he’d been sick for a long time. Maybe he’d just been good at hiding it. 

“I don’t know how to be.” Thomas mumbled, ashamed of his own answer as he looked way, “But I’ll try for you.” 

What more could be asked for? 

“Eat your biscuits.” Daisy tried once again for a stab at good natured humor, nodding to the little ceramic tray on Thomas’ dinner plate. Thomas glanced at it, barely taking it in before he smiled at Daisy once more and bowed his head in goodnight. 

“Goodnight, Daisy.” Thomas whispered, and he set his tray down upon his writing desk; Daisy was momentarily offered brief view into his personal domain. 

Most things in his room were not his to claim; a beaded floor lamp, an old armchair and an ironing board propped by the wall…. pictures on the wall of places in Eastern Europe and a white washed set of drawers in the corner atop which a lone mirror stood propped along with a brush and several jars Daisy could not distinguish. His bed was an iron single, a cot made for convenience not comfort.. the same all servants had to call home after a long and weary day. Thick red curtains hid his window from view, casting him in a perpetual gloom that only his lamp broke, but Daisy could see how it was homey. 

But there were a few things that were distinctly Thomas’. A framed photograph stood next to the mirror atop the set of drawers; the distance was too far to see of whom. The traditional alarm clock every servant possessed was bizarrely atop the drawers as well, to be replaced by another smaller clock on Thomas’ night stand that was obviously his own. Tiny pieces were scattered about it, gears glinting in the lamplight as if he were in the middle of repairs. A red leather box was perched on his desk next to the tray he’d just lain down; it was a medical kit and Daisy wondered what it might be for. 

Thomas turned, and Daisy gave him one last fleeting smile as he made to close the door, cutting her out from view and leaving her in the darkened hallway alone. 

For a minute she stood at the door and just listened, hearing the same audible groan from the other side as Thomas sat back down on his bed. After a beat of silence the golden glow beneath the door went out, and Daisy realized that Thomas had turned off his light. She wondered if he’d even bothered to touch his tray before trying for sleep. 

She doubted it.


	2. Bizarre Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It had come out very wrong and Thomas was unsure if he should correct himself or not. 
> 
> He hadn’t meant to say it, or at least he hadn’t mean to say it the way that he had. So frankly. So openly. So… weirdly. But she’d looked so bloody miserable, and he just couldn’t stand it anymore. Not when she was kind and good; not when she was beautiful in her own way."

She’d thought his words would leave her when she went to bed that night, but they persisted. She’d thought his words would leave her when she rose the next morning to light the fires in the kitchen and prepare breakfast for both the upstairs and downstairs, but they’d just kept replaying in her mind. She’d thought his words would leave her when she continued about her day, busy at work as she prepared lunch… but they just stayed there echoing in her brain. 

Echoing, endlessly echoing. 

_“Daisy you are beautiful”_ he had murmured, so soft and so honest.   
Beautiful… she had never been beautiful before. 

Not beautiful to Michael, a follower from the workhouses who’d been eager to court her if only to have something pleasant to wake up to every day while they’d slummed away in the mills. Not beautiful to William Mason (at least he’d never said as much out loud), even though he was willing to go to war for her and ready to marry her while his lungs filled up with fluid. Not beautiful to Alfred Nugent (though she was apparently _’so good, so true’_ to him)… god how she’d wished she could have been beautiful to Alfred. Not even beautiful to Ethan Slade, the odd valet of Mr. Levinson, though heaven only knows he’d been ready to buy her a boat ticket to America. 

Not beautiful to any of the men who had caught her eye, or who had paid the odd court to her. 

Ivy had been beautiful, with auburn hair and big doe eyes, a true graceful beauty and how Daisy had envied her for it. Ivy had been many things; a daughter to a small family where as Daisy was one of eleven… flirtatious and coy where as Daisy was frumpy and unsure. She wanted to be sure, to be held in the arms of a man that loved her, to be kissed and adored- but the years had slowly passed, from one man’s eyes to the next, until Daisy had come to the conclusion that she simply was not the courting type (or the type to be courted, rather). She was a cook, a very good cook… but she had the brain of a kipper and the face of a squashed melon. 

Or did she. 

Thomas was good looking, suave and sophisticated. She was certain he would have good taste, he practically reeked of it. He was always so in control, so poised and ready to strike. He reminded her of a panther that she’d read about in a book on exotic big cats. Hiding in the trees, just waiting to leap out and strike at passing prey with a malicious sneer or a nasty taunt. 

But he hadn’t been malicious or nasty at all last night-

“Daisy?” 

Was that what Thomas was _really_ like underneath his mask? That gentle, soft soul whose gaze had captivated her and bound her without resistance? 

“Daisy!” 

She jolted, eyes widening briefly as she looked up to find Mrs. Patmore glaring at her from across the kitchen island with her hands on her hips and the unfinished savories before her—evidence of Daisy’s slacking. The steam rising from pots on the stove made Mrs. Patmore’s curly hair even more wild (if it were possible) and for just a brief moment with sweat dripping down her face and a flush rising up in her cheeks she looked like a badly tempered bull. Daisy had read many books on foreign countries as of late, and had seen paintings depicting the running of the bulls in Spain. She imagined that scenario to be quite similar to her life at Downton, save that she was not a matador with a sword. Even if she was, she doubted she could win against Mrs. Patmore. 

“Is there a reason you’re off with the fairies and not with me making the savories for tonight’s dinner?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, looking from Daisy to the savories with sour contempt. Daisy doubted the phrase _‘Thomas has nice arm muscles’_ would go over very well, so she started mumbling something vague in the hopes that an idea would spring to her while she talked. 

“Sorry Mrs. Patmore I was, uh-“ 

“With the fairies!” And at this Mrs. Patmore forced a spatula into Daisy’s blistered grip so that she could commence stirring ingredients for the mayonnaise sauce she ought to have started a good ten minutes ago. With rabid haste, Daisy began to whip the mayonnaise about the mixing bowl, holding it in an iron grip so that it did not topple over in her fever. 

“Though why I couldn’t tell you-“ Mrs. Patmore was still muttering, returning to the sink where a fat salmon was half skinned and waiting expectantly for her carving knife. Scales glittered like diamonds all about Mrs. Patmore’s hands, as if she were wearing gloves made of gems instead of the guts of fish. Daisy found herself captivated by how it looked in the light streaming from above where columns of steam and smoke swirled about the top of the kitchen. 

She didn’t know why, but now that she was studying art and foreign cultures, she found herself quite taken with even the most mundane of things. 

Mrs. Patmore was still looking at her.   
Daisy flushed and returned to the sauce. 

With every turn of the spoon, Thomas’ words still echoed in her brain:   
_“Daisy you are beautiful.”  
“Daisy you are beautiful.”   
“Daisy you ARE beautiful.”_

“Florence, take that tea to the servant’s hall.” Mrs. Patmore directed the kitchen maid; Daisy glanced over her shoulder to see Florence scoop up the tray on the island and carry it off. 

“Annie-“ Mrs. Patmore caught the second kitchen maid just as she rounded the corner from the outer hallway by Mrs. Hughe’s sitting room, “Catch Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room and see if you can give her the inventories before Mr. Barrow comes down to collect them?” 

“Yes Mrs. Patmore.” Annie grabbed the inventory stack from its nail on the wall, jerking it loose and dashing back out- suddenly the kitchen was clear of company. Daisy paled, quite sure she knew what was coming. 

“Now.” Mrs. Patmore washed her hands clean of scales, turning the tap and wiping her hands hastily upon her apron to glance momentarily at the many copper pots upon the stove before looking to Daisy with great knowing. “What’s this-“ she gestured at Daisy’s slack face, “about.” 

There was no hiding from her. She was a bull with a microscope and Daisy was a matador without a sword or a prayer. 

She glanced down at the bowl she held; Mrs. Patmore took it away with her meaty grip before Daisy could use it as an excuse to avoid her questions. 

“… Last night I took that tray up to Thomas.” Daisy mumbled, pinching her blistered fingers together momentarily as Mrs. Patmore nodded, “And I talked with him for a while… and… he were nice.” 

Mrs. Patmore raised her eyebrows just a tad, not so much surprised to hear it as glad. 

“Well that’s good to hear.” Mrs. Patmore added. Daisy couldn’t agree more. 

“He were kind to me.” Daisy continued in a rush, wondering if Mrs. Patmore might understand her predicament better than she, “We talked about William and Alfred and…” Daisy broke off, unsure of how this would sound, “He called me beautiful.” 

Mrs. Patmore did not look pleased, her frown deepening as her heavy brow began to furrow. 

“He said I were beautiful in my soul.” Daisy continued on, and the desperation must have shown in her words for Mrs. Patmore was looking slightly alarmed now, “That it shone out through me eyes-“ 

“Did he say that?” She glanced down at the bowl of mayonnaise and handed it to Daisy once more so that Daisy could resume beating it, “Well that’s…. very nice of him.” And yet still she was shaking her head as if she couldn’t fathom it. 

“It were!” Daisy carried on whipping, adding two raw eggs after a moment, “and I didn’t know what to say. I’d never taken him for that sort but he just seemed so sincere. Like he was finally speakin’ without that ridiculous mask he wears. He said he’d always wanted to tell me how beautiful I was, but that he never did because he didn't think I'd care to hear it after the way he treated me for William and during the war. He said he was a bastard to me… that he shouldn't bother me.” 

Daisy looked off; a flush had crept up her cheeks that had nothing to do with the stove. 

Mrs. Patmore let out a deep sigh, her thin lips pursed as she set her salmon down for the second time and turned to look plaintively at Daisy. For a minute the two women stared at one another, and Daisy was once again struck by how much of a mother Mrs. Patmore was to her. More of a mother than her own flesh and blood whom she hadn’t seen in god knows how many years. She couldn’t even remember what she looked like. 

“… Daisy.” Mrs. Patmore set her knife down warily, “He’s not the man for you.” 

Daisy scoffed- that same old line… but why? “Why do you always say that?” 

“Thomas is-“ Mrs. Patmore seemed to struggle for the word, waving the knife about the air as if she could cut it clean in two and the word would tumble out, “a troubled man. He’s not a ladies man. D’ya understand?” 

But she didn’t, “I know he’s not a ladies man!” Daisy argued, suddenly finding herself quite annoyed with the whole argument, “He’s not like Jimmy; _he_ flirted with everyone. But I don’t like that anyway. I like sincerity and hard workers.” 

“Thomas is not sincere, nor is he a hard worker.” Mrs. Patmore resumed scraping the salmon, her tone taking a nasty edge in her biting joke. Daisy scowled from across the island. 

“I disagree!” Daisy said, “I know he can be nasty when he wants to be, but there’s something about it that’s false-“ 

“I know that-“ 

“And he started out as a hall boy and now he’s under butler!” 

“That’s true-“ Mrs. Patmore rushed before Daisy could cut her off again, “But it weren’t for working hard- and I won’t have you pining over him again!” 

“I’m not pining, Mrs. Patmore!” Daisy protested vigorously even though a niggling voice in the back of her head warned her that she was, in fact, pining. “But no one ever calls me beautiful and the way he said it were like it was coming straight from his heart. No one's ever spoken to me like that- not even Alfred.” 

“That’s because Alfred understood how to be respectful to women-“ Mrs. Patmore warned, eyeing Daisy beadily. Daisy now whipped the mayonnaise with renewed vigor as if it had done her a personal wrong, “Thomas ought to take a leaf out of his book. Now finish the mayonnaise sauce so it can stew while we peel the potatoes.’ 

Daisy just continued to scowl, her thoughts heavier than ever. 

 

~*~

It had come out very wrong and Thomas was unsure if he should correct himself or not. 

He hadn’t meant to say it, or at least he hadn’t mean to say it the way that he had. So frankly. So openly. So… weirdly. But she’d looked so bloody miserable, and he just couldn’t stand it anymore. Not when she was kind and good; not when she was beautiful in her own way.

He’d been shocked to hear himself speak about William so openly, who remained to this day a dark sore upon Thomas’ inner mind that pulsed with pain when pressed upon. William, who had only ever been kind and gentle. William whom Thomas had goaded and harassed till he’d lost his goddamn mind and punched him square in the face. William… who had died where Thomas had lived. William, the better man to the end. 

Thomas could never apologize for that; could never explain his acerbic attitude nor the truth of his nature. He had a funny feeling William wouldn’t have been able to understand even if Thomas had explained; William might have even been disgusted. William had the sweet air of a child, but he was also a devout member of the Church of England. This was one of the many areas where he and William had fallen out over time. 

There was nothing that put you off of church faster than being told you were going to burn in hell for simply being happy. 

Thomas had spent the entire day beating himself up over the conversation with Daisy, wishing he hadn’t been so bloody stupid with his words, so ridiculously open; noon had drifted into evening as Thomas had restocked the inventory and brought down the first of the winter silver to be polished from the attic. Every step felt like fire in his arse. Every stair a personal battle. Dinner had likewise been an exhaustive affair, and on the flip side of it all Thomas could not help but rest briefly in the servants hall as Daisy went through a large volume with a cup of tea at her elbow. 

Thomas said nothing to her; ever aware of her eyes on the side of his head. She probably thought he was mental after their conversation last night; Thomas cheeks burned with shame. 

The scrape of a chair, the start of a new voice: Moseley had come down for a cup of tea. Thomas worked on the inventory, never raising his eyes but listening avidly the entire time. 

“What do you make of Lady Mary’s hair?” Moseley joked. 

_‘Think she’d look right smart in a pair of trousers.’_ Thomas joked internally while Daisy laughed over her book. 

“They were all talkin’ about it.” Daisy grinned, “I hope she comes down to show us. Miss Bunting loved the new hair styles. She said women were being set free.” 

“I’m sorry Miss Bunting is gone.” Moseley murmured. Thomas couldn’t help but agree, if only for how funny it had been to watch Lord Grantham churn over it. 

“She gave me such confidence.” Daisy lamented. “She’d tell me how sharp I was, how quick.” 

“I agree with her.” 

_‘As do I.’_ Thomas thought bitterly. It was a pity Daisy didn’t realize how intelligent she was. 

“It’s harder on your own. Harder to believe.” And once again, Thomas could sympathize if not wholly agree. It took a great deal of stomach and nerve to be your only supporter; he should know. Thomas idly noted a mistake in Mr. Carson’s wine ledger and quickly corrected it; the man’s eye sight was truly beginning to fail him. Perhaps he’d have to go in for cataract surgery like Mrs. Patmore. 

Thomas prayed not; he didn’t fancy the idea of being the stand in butler. 

“Well, could I help? Not with mathematics, probably, but um… I know a bit about history and I’ve read a few books.” Christ Moseley had all the spine of a leaf of lettuce; he needed to speak with more confidence if he was going to convince Daisy. 

“How old were you when you left school?” 

“… Twelve. It were a shame really I was quite bright. My dad wanted me to stay on. He thought I could be a teacher, if that doesn’t make you laugh. But of course he couldn’t manage it. We had no money you see and then my mother got ill, and so I had to earn as soon as I could.” 

Once again, Thomas could sympathize. His own mother had been a nervous wreck in his youth (it might have had something to do with having a homosexual child and an alcoholic husband in the same house), and Thomas had been pulled out at the age of ten to start work in his father’s shop as his successor and first apprentice. 

“Why don’t you take Matric now?” 

“No, I’ve missed it.” Moseley mumbled, and Thomas honestly wanted to chuck the inventory at his head if only to shriek _‘You haven't missed it you daft bastard, you’re just too scared to try!’_. “But I’d like to help. Make sure somebody got away.” 

“But you couldn’t help with mathematics could you?” Daisy murmured, and she sounded slightly crestfallen. Thomas pursed his lips. 

_‘I could help’_ a voice in the back of his head whispered _‘I’m good at math’._

“No, I wouldn’t dare.” Moseley admitted sheepishly, “I’d do more harm than good.” 

“Oh…” Daisy was truly depressed to hear it. 

_‘I could help!’_ that voice cried out again, _‘I’m damn good at math, look at me tackling the inventory right now!’_

He’d told her last night he’d try to be more kind for her sake. He just didn’t realize he’d have Moseley for an audience when he did it. If only he’d known that, he might have cut his losses and run… but he’d made a promise now.

And damn it he _was_ good at math. 

“…I…”   
Daisy looked up, her eyes bright and keen as Thomas spoke up. 

He swallowed, their conversation from last night heavy on his mind. Was it possible she hadn’t taken offense? “I… could..” 

“You could what?” She asked, hopeful to know more. 

Moseley had gone stonily silent; Thomas knew that his interjection into this conversation was not wanted nor appreciated. Still, math had been his favorite subject, and Thomas had enjoyed it when he’d been allowed to attend school. 

One glance at Moseley was enough to warn Thomas just who he was about to go up against, but really Moseley didn’t hold a candle to the likes of O’Brian or Carson in terms of unnerving him. Thomas could not turn his body to Daisy without causing great pain to his sutures- he felt slightly rude refusing to look at her as he spoke, but if he turned he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to keep in the yowl of pain. 

He clenched his teeth, trying to distract himself from the pain of his sutures; it seemed a good time for a cigarette as any. Thomas reached into his inner coat pocket, pulling out the pack and lighting one up to take a deep drag. The burn in his throat and lungs momentarily dulled his senses. 

Just enough to give him strength to speak. 

“When I was at school, I tutored younger children in math.” Thomas explained, visions in his mind briefly flickering back to a hot, bright classroom packed with screaming kids that clamored for his attention. “When I could. when I had time. I was good at it. I enjoyed it. I could help you.” 

Goddamnit it was getting hard to talk again; Thomas took another drag of his cigarette and tried desperately to ignore the throbbing in his arse. 

“Were you good in school?” Daisy asked, sounding quite interested. 

“Just in math.” Thomas said, but that wasn’t particularly the truth. He’d actually been quite bright in nearly all his subjects save for history… but his father had only cared about math and so Thomas had focused on it more. “I wasn’t all that well suited for history. I could never pay attention. I was always in trouble.” 

“Shocking.” Moseley drawled; Thomas paid him no mind.   
He thought of David Baxter, Phyllis’ younger brother. What would he say if he knew his sister was being courted by someone as feeble and frail as old Moseley? Thomas doubted he’d approve. David had always been kind to Thomas.. they’d played cricket together. Thomas had even had a slight crush on David. 

Before Sam. 

“How old were you when you left?” Daisy asked, dragging Thomas right out of his thoughts.Thomas frowned, his brain momentarily devoid of images as he wracked his memory for the accurate age. 

“…Ten.” Thomas finally answered, for that sounded about right. “My father pulled me out.” 

“Why?” Daisy was agog, perhaps amazed to know she’d had more time behind the desk than Thomas. 

Thomas did not answer for a moment, instead finishing off his cigarette and starting up another one. 

Another minute ticked by, then another. Thomas realized that both Daisy and Moseley were watching him. Waiting. 

Why? Couldn’t they take a hint? 

Thomas looked up, noting that Moseley seemed quite wary of whatever his answer would be… as if he expected Thomas to say something truly horrendous. Daisy likewise looked worried if not sympathetic. It was starting to piss him off. 

“Because I was his oldest son.” Thomas muttered, not caring for the way he had to give out personal information in order to continue on with conversation, “My duty was to our family shop, not to an education. And he figured there was nothing I needed to learn outside of the three ‘r’s… for running the business.” 

Thomas cracked his neck, taking another deep drag from his cigarette. He dropped his eyes back to the inventory, wanting to finish it now instead of this damn conversation. 

“Why aren’t you then?” 

“What?” 

“Running the shop? Why did you go into service?” 

They’d officially reached the end of their conversation in Thomas’ eyes. He would go no further. There were too many memories; too many layered emotions. Too many consequences for things that had not been his fault… too many words that could never be taken back. None of these things could be conveyed to Daisy, to anyone really. 

How in the hell could he explain so much pain without reliving it? Thomas didn’t know if it was possible. 

“I can help you in math.” He murmured, “If you’d like me to.” 

The unanswered questions from before cast an eerie feel upon the conversation… one that bordered far too close to pity for Thomas’ liking. 

“Would you?” Daisy seemed to register that she would have to go without answers for the time being, and instead of pressing him simply closed her book and smiled at him; he craned his neck to look at her, still unable to swivel about in his seat. “Math is my worst subject, and I really need to focus on it for running Mr. Mason’s farm. But I’m poor at history too.” 

“Well…” Thomas nodded in Mr. Moseley’s direction; he gave Thomas a reproachful glare, “Mr. Moseley could help you in history and I could help you in math.” 

“I’d be happy to help you Daisy.” Mr. Moseley murmured, kindness oozing from every pore. Thomas wanted to retch, “You know that.” 

“I’d like that. That would be very nice… thank you.” Daisy seemed quite satisfied with this turn of events, and Thomas returned his attention to the inventory as he finished his second cigarette. His throat was delightfully numb now, and he focused on the sensation to avoid remembering his childhood insanities. To avoid the memory of Sam’s sweet face dripping in-

“Are you feeling better?” 

Once again Thomas was drug up from the depths of numbing inventory and cigarette smoke to deal with Daisy; she was still smiling at him, still eager to continue talking, and Thomas was close to saying something surly until he remembered their conversation from the night prior in which he’d promised to be nice. 

He owed it to William. To her. 

“Not particularly.” Thomas admitted, when in truth the phrase _‘Fuck no I’m dying’_ would have fit nicer, “But I will soon.” 

“What got you so ill?” Daisy asked. 

Once again the truth was out. The phrase _‘I was trying to stop liking cock’_ didn’t seem to sound promising, conversation wise… and it would only lead to awkward questions of him liking cock in the first place. As far as he knew, Daisy had no idea he was gay and he planned to keep it that way. The last thing he needed was more questions. 

“Sometimes you have to bite the bullet to gain what you want.” Thomas said, knowing his words were irritatingly vague but feeling there was no other way forward in this conversation. The truth was out, and he didn’t feel comfortable lying after last night’s conversation. 

“And did you gain what you want?” Daisy asked. 

Now there was an interesting question. 

Dr. Clarkson had been pessimistic, but Thomas hadn’t been the only one in that therapy wing, and he was certain that Dr. Warren (his London psychiatrist) was an intelligent man who had excellent medical credentials. Surely they were onto something. Surely an answer could be found. Phyllis likewise thought Thomas was wasting his time… but his entire future was at stake. His ability to be happy, to be loved, to have a family and a sense of community. He wasn’t giving up just because two naysayers were less than hopeful. He’d fight for his future; he’d either achieve his goal or go down trying. Edward had slit his wrists with a straight razor… Thomas knew there was lye in the powder cabinet. At this point he’d rather be dead than alone.   
Jimmy was gone. The mere weight of those words in his mind was more than he could stand. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, “I’ll find out soon, hopefully.” 

“I hope you get it.” Daisy murmured in a soft sweet voice; like music without a warble. 

Thomas looked up and smiled at her. He knew it was rare for her to see him smile, but she didn’t let the shock show on her face. Instead she just beamed, as if she’d been waiting for him to smile for the entire conversation. As if nothing could have made her day happier than to see him share in that happiness. Thomas appreciated her support, her concern, particularly when his closest confidant was certain he was wasting his time and acting foolishly. 

He returned his gaze to the inventory and this time was bothered no more. 

 

~*~

The kitchen was placed rather strategically, or so Beryl Patmore believed. In the dead center of the downstairs communes, the kitchen had the unique layout to be able to view the servant’s hall, the wing to both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson’s personal offices and the pantry (obviously). Because of this, Beryl herself could stand at the stove and hear a conversation going on in the servant’s hall while likewise making sure that the maids didn’t get up to too much mayhem in the pantry without breaking a sweat. 

After that bizarre conversation with Daisy today, Beryl was already sweating enough. 

Thomas’ situation was a poor one, make no mistake, but Daisy had no business getting herself mixed up in it. Beryl had known from the beginning, the very beginning, that Thomas’ life would never be easy at Downton… and she’d suspected for quite a long time that Thomas’ life before Downton had been far from pleasant. It was something in the way he spoke, like he was expecting someone to make fun of him for everything that he said. He moved with a predatory walk, as if he imagined someone might try to take him from behind. From the moment he’d walked through the door to accept the position of hall boy, Thomas had been tense and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

There had been moments where the shoe had wobbled. Times where Thomas had taken passing interest in a local village boy only to be horribly let down when they fancied other girls. At one point, Beryl had been certain Thomas had had a lover… post had come in with frequency and every time he’d received a letter Thomas had broken into a delighted flushed smile. But something had happened there too, and suddenly Carson had reported he was missing twenty four bottles of wine. 

Beryl had had her share of heartache, make no mistake, but she’d never felt the need to tuck into two cases of wine for it. 

No, that shoe had remained perched up high for quite a long time, and after Thomas’ return from war Beryl had imagined it might stay there untouched till she croaked. 

But then Jimmy Kent had walked in, lord preserve them… and that had been the end of that. 

That had been a month from hell, with none other to repeat it quite the same. She didn’t know what had shocked her more: the fact that Thomas had openly kissed Jimmy or the way that Jimmy had treated him afterward… like he were garbage fit for the slums. It had been a nasty affair to watch, and Beryl had despised the whole process. The way Thomas had turned from confident and poised to utterly broken and miserable. Beryl had sent far too many trays up after that cricket match; Thomas just couldn’t stand to sit and eat in the servant’s hall with the others. His absent chair had been an ugly ominous reminder of what had occurred… and no one had found it funny. 

When Thomas had resumed his meals below stairs, he’d a changed man, a ghost, and for the year that followed he didn’t crack a single sultry smile.

Funny how he’d started smiling again after being clobbered in Thirsk. 

Now far be it from Beryl to begrudge a man happiness, but she had a soft spot for Daisy Mason that could not be denied nor put asunder. Perhaps it was because she’d spent a good six years hauling the girl about by her ears, but Beryl liked to believe that Daisy was as close to her own daughter as she was ever viable to get… and she didn’t care for her daughter to be frolicking after a gay man. Particularly a gay man like Thomas, who was utterly besotted with a man like Jimmy Kent. It didn’t speak good of his taste or sensibilities. Sure Jimmy was an alright sort, but good lord could he stir a pot when he wanted to! 

Then again, Thomas could throw both a cricket ball and a tantrum, make no mistake. 

But what it all came back to was that the kitchen was placed rather strategically and Beryl had heard every lick of the conversation between Thomas and Daisy. She’d also known Daisy well enough to hear the longing in her voice when she’d said “I hope you get it.”

In times like these there was only one thing to do. Converge upon General Elsie, and converge quickly in order to gain a battle plan for the day to follow.

So it was Officer Beryl bore her tea tray in hand, a few biscuits in tow, and knocked idly upon Mrs. Hughe’s sitting room door with a self important air. It opened promptly, and Beryl was given view to Mrs. Hughes in the middle of inventory reports Thomas had no doubt just turned in for her final approval. Thankfully, for the sake of the conversation Beryl was about to embark upon, Thomas himself was no where to be seen. 

“Beryl!” Mrs. Hughes greeted her warmly, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the tea tray she bore, “You’ve brought tea; that’s very kind.” 

“I thought we might have a cup.” Beryl set the tray upon Mrs. Hughes side table with care, taking care not to spill any tea as Mrs. Hughes drew out two chairs and sat down upon one with heavy exhaustion. They were no where near christmas yet, and still there was talk of the holidays upon the air. Ordering and planning had to be done months in advance; Beryl knew it wouldn’t be long before Thomas would be scurrying around with the hall boys in the attic bringing down every box known to man to get the main hall ready for the season. With Mr. Branson leaving on the new year, there was a sense of strange finality. Everything had to be done right, to be done well, to give him the best send off possible. 

“I have something I want to discuss with you.” Beryl began, unsure of how this would sound or what Mrs. Hughes would say. She, Beryl, Carson and Thomas made up the top tier in the staff, and frankly any discord between them could mean bad news for the rest of the downstairs… but Mrs. Hughes was (if privately) a friend to Thomas and of all the people who knew Thomas ‘secret’, Mrs. Hughes had been the most kind during “the incident” (as everyone wisely referred to it). 

“Please tell me it’s not another suitor craving a fully belly.” Mrs. Hughes joked, and Beryl heaved a bitter sigh as she remembered how very disappointing that whole Jos Tufton episode had been. Funny, now that she thought about it… Thomas had given him a sharp bite when he’d first walked into the servant’s hall. 

Maybe Thomas knew the true intentions of men better than most. God only knows he ought to, kissing them in their sleep and what not. 

“No- not particularly.” the trepidation in her voice spoke miles for what she feared might happen: Daisy sobbing in the kitchen and Thomas embarrassed beyond his years in the boot room. She didn’t know who’d have it worse… Daisy for losing a love interest or Thomas for having a kiss forced upon him by a member of the opposite sex. 

Beryl wondered if Thomas had ever kissed a woman; she wondered if he’d even be able to stomach it without panicking and backing out two seconds in. She tried to imagine herself kissing a woman, kissing Mrs. Hughes for size… the scene just wouldn’t work in her head. It was simply unfathomable. She supposed Thomas would suffer the same seizing fit if every put in the same situation. 

“Heavens now I’m worried.” Mrs. Hughes stirred milk into her tea, waiting expectantly as she relaxed back into her rigid chair. Beryl did the same, taking sugar instead of milk in hers. 

She pursed her lips, unsure where to start. 

“It’s Thomas and Daisy.” Beryl said. Mrs. Hughes arched an expected eyebrow. 

“Thomas and Daisy?” She repeated, no doubt unsure where the connection was, “Has he been telling her to go on strike again?” 

Beryl snorted at the memory, but before she could begin this conversation she had to make certain neither Thomas nor Daisy was in the hallway outside. She rose from her chair, checking outside the door for just a moment with her finger up in paused warning. Mrs. Hughes looked alarmed when she retook her seat and picked back up her tea. 

“This afternoon, Daisy told me she’d spoke with Thomas when she’d brought him up his tray last night. She said that he’d been very kind to her.” Beryl explained; Mrs. Hughes tilted her head a little amused at the idea of Thomas being outwardly kind to Daisy. 

“Well that’s refreshing.” She clucked. 

“They talked about William and Alfred, and apparently…” At this Beryl heaved a massive sigh, “apparently Thomas said that she was beautiful in her soul and it shone out through her eyes.” 

“What?” Mrs. Hughes snorted into her tea, setting down her cup to look Beryl dead in the eye. Beryl squared her jaw, grinding her teeth a little as she rocked a bit in her chair. 

“That’s what she said- I’m tellin’ you!” Beryl grumbled, “And the more she went on about it the more worried I turned. Then tonight, not even an hour ago, I heard them from the kitchens in the servant’s hall. Daisy’s not doing well in her mathematics and Thomas agreed to tutor her. but the way they were talking…” Beryl rolled her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose for a moment to collect her thoughts, “I’m worried that girl is going to fall for him. Again.” 

Mrs. Hughes did not look pleased. “Which will only end in embarrassment for Thomas and confusion for Daisy.” 

“Should I say something?” Beryl asked, setting her tea cup aside despite having only taken a few sips out of it. She wasn’t truly thirsty anyways. “To Daisy, I mean. Should I… tell her.” She rolled her wrist, her hand conveying the hidden end of the sentence ‘should I tell her he’s gay’. 

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips and thought for a moment, her brow furrowing. She took a final sip of tea, draining its contents before setting her cup aside. Beryl made to refill it but Mrs. Hughes stopped her, her warm brown eyes narrowed as she thought it over. 

“No.” Mrs. Hughes finally murmured, “No I don’t think she’d understand and Thomas won’t thank you for bringing up that subject again. God forbid she turn on him and be unkind.” 

Beryl frowned, for she hadn’t been expecting Mrs. Hughes to answer that way. Lacing her hands in her lap, she fiddled with the apron for a moment before speaking her mind. 

“Do you think she would? Truly?” Beryl didn’t like the idea of Daisy being cruel to anyone; it had been bad enough with Ivy and Alfred. 

“Whose to say.” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “Mr. Carson is hardly an unkind man but he won’t budge on that particular subject either.” 

Beryl made a noise of agreement; it was painful to imagine how Thomas and Mr. Carson wrestled with one another… how Thomas looked to Mr. Carson time and time again for approval when he thought no one could see only to be shot down in the dirt. No one else saw it, though Mrs. Hughes probably did… but the unspoken tension between the two men was incredibly painful to endure. Particularly when they were having a bad day (which was most days). 

“I’m worried Daisy will think Thomas is flirting with her when he’s not.” Beryl admitted. 

“Either way it’ll get no where and she’ll realize that soon enough.” Mrs. Hughes lamented, more for Daisy’s sake than for Thomas’. 

They’d resigned themselves to a lifetime of loneliness long ago… but it was always hard for the youth in service to realize that the Bates’ story would not be their story. That love was rare below stairs… that marriage was even rarer. It was a sobering thought to turn any teacup cold. 

“It’ll crush her heart.” Beryl murmured. 

“Oh I doubt it’ll get that far.” Mrs. Hughes soothed, and she patted Beryl’s knee in kind comfort, “Daisy’s a sensible girl and for all his… oddities… Thomas would not willingly give her hope.” 

Neither of them could have foreseen how very wrong they both were.


	3. Wolves in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thomas would never be able to apologize to William, not in this life at least. His only chance at closure, at gaining some type of inner peace on the subject lay in the hands of William’s father. Mrs. Patmore wrote to Mr. Mason, as did Daisy. It wouldn’t be uncommon for him to get mail from the Abbey; the real question was could Thomas persuade him in his letter to keep Thomas’ apology to himself. To understand Thomas’ situation without explaining it in-depth?"

Thomas had always liked to keep an eye out. 

It had started in early childhood, where a few extra minutes warning could make the difference between a black eye and a clean face. His father had not been know for his patience, and if Thomas had had the extra minute to scamper out of his way, it usually ended better in his favor. Likewise, when Thomas began to work at Downton, the habit continued. O’Brian had been quick to pick up on it, noting how clever and sharp Thomas was in her many compliments to him when they’d first begun to smoke together outside. She’d supplied the cigarettes, and the habit had shortly followed. At first Thomas had sat outside just to listen to her chitter about the other servants and make fun of the upstairs, but then he’d stayed when her nagging had turned into nurturing, and her smoking and silence had shifted into soothing understanding where his family and Carson were concerned. 

_“Don’t let him see you cry, love.”_ She’d warned him tersely even as she patted his back and offered him yet another cigarette. 

As he’d grown, and become more paranoid of his fellow servants, things had changed. Suddenly keeping an eye out was back to avoiding pain, instead of the thrill of mischief and O’Brian. Once more, Thomas was checking around every corner for a fist, and frankly was frightened of what he’d find there after “the incident”. For a year, Thomas had been terrified nearly all the time save for when he slept (and even then terrible dreams had pursued him). He’d kept quiet, for the most part, but it hadn’t been easy at first. At times he’d jolted awake and caught himself whimpering. Then whimpering had turned into barely suppressed screams and so Thomas had taken up a new habit in order to work out the tension and avoid Jimmy: he’d begun to walk. 

It was impossible to stay in the courtyard where he and O’Brian had so often smoked. She came outside too often for him to have a cigarette in peace, and after “The incident” she was frankly furious with him and eager to make her wrath known when the others weren’t around. She might not have been able to get rid of him, but in her eyes she could still make his life so miserable that he might choose to leave on his own. What she’d clearly forgotten was that Thomas had no where to leave to, and even if he had… he couldn’t leave Jimmy. Even when Jimmy had been ready to punch him in the face just for offering him toast or speaking in his presence. So instead of staying put and attempting to smoke while O’Brian hissed at him, he’d left the courtyard and just kept walking. It had been the dead of night, but Thomas hadn’t cared. Any road out of Downton was a road he’d gladly take, and so he’d scoped the village several times before settling on a path that he’d most enjoyed. He’d take the road into the main village but divert halfway down and travel through the farm cottages where the Bates’ lived. He’d stop by their house, make sure everything was as it should be, and then head around back to observe their garden. Anna often had vegetables and fruits planted, and Thomas took a strange childish pleasure it snagging one of her grape tomatoes to nibble on as he walked. One time she’d planted strawberries and he’d eaten the lot only to hear her complain over breakfast the next day that rabbits had gotten into her garden. After the Bates’ cottage Thomas would walk into the main village proper and stop at Downton Cemetery to visit Edward and Sybil’s graves, along with William Mason as well. He could stay here for quite a while and collect his nerves, taking comfort in Anna’s strawberries or tomatoes as he smoked his cigarettes and watched the moon slowly pass overhead. 

Now that O’Brian was gone, Thomas didn’t really have an excuse to continue his nightly walks. But with Jimmy’s departure, night had become unbearable once more. Instead of waking up from dreams crying, Thomas simply wept aloud unable to sleep. It was the knowledge that he was alone, that no one in the house cared for him, that everyone had someone… save for him. And that was the way it was always going to be. It damned him, plagued him, and pushed him to the brink to where he had to move before he went to his vanity and took a razor to his throat. So his night walks had resumed and to Anna’s dismay the rabbits had returned to her garden. Alas, such was life. 

Inside the house, Thomas was much of the same mindset: to keep out of sight, and to listen. He found this relatively easy to do now that he was the under butler. A great deal of his work was done out of sight, though it was no less important than the work of a footman or valet. That had been Thomas’ greatest fear at first when he’d been given the position by Lord Grantham. He’d feared that being an under-butler would make him the first to be cut, disposable and easily gone without. After all, Downton had run without an under-butler for many years… so why need one now? What he didn’t realize was that Carson had taken the role of under-butler to mean ‘personal assistant’ and so Thomas had become many things in his attempt to help Carson around the house. They did not like each other, indeed Thomas was convinced that at times Carson flat out hated him… but Carson needed him. Thomas was the second up in the mornings, up even before the hall boys, and was more often than not the last person to go to bed. On a good day he got five hours of sleep. On a bad day he got no sleep at all and simply continued working into the next day. Carson’s workload was halved, as was Mrs. Hughes. In a way he became them both, merged into a whole and so Thomas catered to both their needs, kept out of sight, and an ear to the floor as he prowled around the house. 

As it stood, Thomas was now outside the boot room going over an inventory list for house hold needs. It was by far one of the longest, and hardest to replenish simply because it covered everything from water wax to soda crystals. It just so happened that the Bates’ were inside the boot room, working on a pair of shoes. It wouldn’t do to go in and disturb them now, so Thomas kept to the outside, going over the inventory and waited for them to leave. 

The fact that he was listening on their conversation was mere happenstance. 

“Who was that letter from?” Came Anna’s muffled voice. 

“Mr. Brook. He’s got a new job in Salford, so he doesn’t want to renew the lease. We need to find another tenant, damn it.” Bates sounded quite irked by the whole affair. 

“Don’t be ungrateful. I bless your mother every day for leaving us that house. When you have property you have choices.” Anna reminded him, and Thomas nodded in firm agreement. She was right, of course, and the more choices they had as servants the better as far as Thomas was concerned. 

“So what should we do?” Bates asked. 

“Well, After he’s gone, let’s ask for time off together, go down and see what condition he’s left it in. Then we can plan. … Why are you smiling?” 

“Because whenever I see a problem, you see only possibilities.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes at this, tapping his pen idly upon the edge of his beaten clipboard and moving off. He could come back to the boot room later if they were going to continue on with this ridiculous banter. 

Later on that same night Thomas was outside the kitchen waiting for the anticipated arrival of Lord Merton. Mercifully his sons were not invited as well (though the Sinderby’s were); Thomas had taken very little pleasure in watching Branson nearly go to fisticuffs with Lord Merton’s oldest son. It was true that Thomas did not care for Branson as much as he really ought to, but at the same time Lord Merton’s son had set him on edge with that ‘grubby little chauffeur’ comment. Sybil had adored Branson in life, and Thomas had likewise adored Sybil, but her death was a direct result of her love for Branson and frankly that unsettled Thomas on a deep and bitter level. His only consolation was the sweet Miss Sybie who even now took great pleasure in finding him about the house and begging sweets from him. As a smoker he often carried around peppermints to make sure he never offended the upstairs, and Sybie knew that well enough to come running to him whenever she was in the mood for a mint. The fact that he’d started carrying chocolate around in his pockets as well was once again happenstance. 

Thomas let out an exhausted breath, his ears picking up on slight conversation in the kitchen even as he kept a wary eye out for Carson. Like Bates, Carson had the ability to make Thomas jump a foot in the air if he was approached from behind and in too loud a voice. Yet even as Thomas began to listen to Moseley press Daisy for the opportunity to look over Vanity Fair after dinner, a sudden thunderous voice shook his from his thoughts and made him shutter in his step as Carson came whirling around the banister to the upstairs and caught him off guard. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Carson drawled; Thomas fixed his face into a ‘servant’s blank’. 

“Mr. Carson.” He replied. 

“What were you doing standing around the eves?” Carson demanded, bagged eyes narrowing in common suspicion. Thomas looked about, for something, anything to claim to be doing, but Carson knew his habits and would hear none of his lies. 

“Lord Merton’s arrived.” Carson cut him off even before he began, Thomas gave a curt nod as he made his way to the stairwell with the intent to go up. But even so he watched as Carson walk into the kitchen, and waited a moment more. Daisy was now lamenting the woes of the labor government to Mrs. Patmore, and Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. 

“Mr. MacDonald seems to limp from crisis to crisis. They were going to do so much when they came in. The first Labour Government! And now, I’ll doubt if they’ll last the year.” Daisy’s voice drifted out of the kitchens. Thomas pursed his lips, his hand idle upon the railing. She had a point of course, just as she usually did. Daisy was incredibly sharp for a mere kitchen assistant, but Thomas had always admired her for that. When she’d been a scullery maid she’d been rather dull, if not naive… but thirteen years underneath Mrs. Patmore had turned her into a stickler for detail and a sharp tongue for debate. 

“And now I’m wondering is it worth it, me trying to better myself? What’s the point?” Daisy was now saying, and once again Thomas could see her point. It was difficult not to lose faith, particularly when one had high hopes. Politics were painful to endure, ever shifting and often with harsh consequences for the working class. There was no easy way to explain to someone like Daisy that the labour government was probably going to fail-

“Mr. Barrow!” 

Thomas jumped, nearly slipping upon the stair as he whirled around to come face to face with a beady eyed Carson who glared at him from two steps down. Straightening his livery and letting out an irritated huff, Thomas stormed a few steps up. He hated being caught off guard by Carson- _god_ how it irked him! 

“The guests are coming into the dining hall- see to your business!” Carson warned in a voice that threatened hellfire and damnation should he not follow through. 

“Yes Mr. Carson.” Thomas snapped in a voice that threatened a shitty attitude for the rest of the night should Carson keep pressing him. 

After working closely with one another for four years, Carson knew full well not to get Thomas in a ‘mood’. It was a threat that could almost rival Carson’s own snarling. 

Almost. 

Dinner was normal, or least as normal as normal could get in a household like the Grantham’s. The Dowager seemed damned determined to drive Lady Crawley up the wall and Lord Merton was either utterly smitten with her or suffering from an opium high. He had a blissful grin upon his aging face, constantly batting his eyelashes at Lady Crawley when he thought the Dowager wasn’t looking. A true player in the House of Grantham knew that the Dowager was always looking, and the day the old bitch missed a sign was the day she croaked. Thomas had a feeling the Dowager was going to outlive them all, so Lord Merton would either have to learn to fly right and act straight or start courting Lady Crawley when the Dowager was safely out of the vicinity. 

It privately irked Thomas to know that Lord Merton’s romance with Lady Crawley was a foreign concept to him. Acting so openly in love would surely lead to arrest or a public beating for him… or so Thomas had come to understand. He tried to imagine what it would be like to flirt with someone openly, to have that flirtation reciprocated. 

He imagined a scene where he and Jimmy sat at the servant’s table; Valentines Day. Thomas would slide his valentine across the table, right onto Jimmy’s plate. Jimmy would look down, amused and delighted; would pluck the valentine up and open it right in front of God and everyone. He would read Thomas’ words, and smile. Would blush, knowing himself adored and treasured. Then, he would reach into his breast pocket and pull out his own valentine. He would hand it right over to Thomas, cocky grin intact, and all the others would see Thomas take the valentine from Jimmy’s hand. Thomas would open it, never minding that Carson sat only one seat away. He would read Jimmy’s words. Something short and stupid, snarky and shaded in sarcasm but _perfect_ and all for Thomas alone. And Thomas would know. 

He would know the pleasure of being in love in public, and he would praise his love to the heavens. Would paint the sky with stars, for all the things Jimmy made him feel. 

But then the image faded and left Thomas in a stoic dining hall waiting upon a family that hardly approved of his existence, serving under a butler that despised him, and dying in a bed that would forever be cold.

Thomas was silent during his own dinner, ignoring Baxter’s pointed looks and Bates’ glares. He thought of Jimmy, of the wound on his hip, and the valentine he would never receive. He barely had an appetite by the end of it. 

After dinner Thomas found himself drifting into the warmth of the kitchen. His hip felt like it was on fire at this point, and he was almost certain his wound was bleeding; his pants stuck to his leg awkwardly, but it was all mercifully hid behind his coat tails (thank god for small favors). The heat coming off the oven was soothing to his wound, and he didn’t know why but it amused him to see Daisy ferreting around the kitchen dealing with left overs and cleaning off remnants from plates. She if anyone would understand how it felt to have an unrequited love. Her adoration of Alfred had been well known to everyone downstairs (save for of course Alfred himself). The only difference between them was that Daisy had had everyone’s sympathy, and could speak openly about her love for Alfred with anyone if she needed an understanding ear. 

Thomas could speak to no one, had spoken to no one since the night Mrs. Hughes had found him crying in the courtyard. Even then the conversation had been rather choppy and less of an actual conversation than a cry fest as Thomas wept upon her side table till he’d nearly hyperventilated and had needed to be held to simply string out a sentence. 

Amazing how much the phrase: _“I love him and he hates me.”_ could take to get out. Mrs. Hughes had never spoken of that night again, but she knew his shame well enough. 

Daisy was making a pot of tea, slightly wrapped up in her work, but she glanced every so often at Thomas as he leaned against the wall and tried to gain some kind of relief from the throbbing of his hip. Cigarettes could only do so much; Thomas was getting to the point where a shot of morphine might sooth him better. He wondered what Dr. Clarkson would make of him banging on his door in the middle of the night and sobbing like a beaten child for a hit of morphine. Maybe he could just steal it- save that he knew Dr. Clarkson kept all the heavy drugs locked up and the sole key was in his possession so Thomas would have to rob him first. That was easy enough to do; sneak into his house and pilfer through his whites till he found which pocket he kept the key in- but Thomas’ hip would not cooperate with any sneaking or scheming. 

So it seemed robbing the bastard for morphine was out. 

“Here.” 

Thomas snapped out of that particularly dark thought to find Daisy before him holding a cup of tea. Thomas smiled, taking it from her, and he noted how their fingers ghosted across one another. Daisy had even put a ginger biscuit on his tea saucer, and Thomas chuckled at it as he ate and took a sip of scalding tea. The spices filled his mouth and nose, making him momentarily forget his woes as Daisy filled herself her own cup of tea and likewise ate a ginger biscuit. She looked thoroughly exhausted, and Thomas could not blame her. She was one of the hardest workers in the house, and even in the colder months the kitchen could become unbearably hot. Daisy rubbed the back of her neck, perhaps wishing she could massage it, and took another sip of tea so that the pair of them sat in silence for a moment. 

Mrs. Patmore drifted into the kitchen carrying a final tray to be scraped and washed. When she saw Thomas leaning against the wall she looked slightly disturbed for a moment; Thomas couldn’t understand why. Was it so abnormal for a man to take a cup of tea after a long grueling day? Mrs. Patmore’s eyes shifted between him and Daisy, who was still massaging her neck absently. When she registered they hadn’t been conversing she seemed to relax a little, setting the dirty tray upon the kitchen island for one of the kitchen maids to clean. Daisy poured her a cup of tea and she accepted it with silent thanks. 

“Something on your mind, Thomas?” Mrs. Patmore spoke up; Thomas paused mid sip, licking his lips absently as he looked way. His thoughts were full of Jimmy; of golden hair and jaunty piano tunes… of card games and valentines he’d never receive but he couldn’t exactly say that to Mrs. Patmore. Or to anyone. 

“Why would you think that?” Thomas asked, wondering if his sorry state showed on his face. 

“Oh no reason,” Mrs. Patmore said in a tone that suggested there were many reasons indeed, “You just look as mopey as a milk maid without her bucket.” 

“When have I ever had a bucket to begin with.” Thomas muttered under his breath as he took another sip of tea. Mrs. Patmore must have heard him, for she shot him a sympathetic look that Thomas pointedly avoided. He despised people feeling sorry for him, particularly people like Mrs. Patmore who’d known him since he’d arrived and had seen his entire life unfold (or so it felt like). Strangers were easier to ignore, but ignoring Mrs. Patmore was fucking impossible. 

He’d have better luck ignoring a bomb blast. 

“Have you heard anything from Jimmy?” Mrs. Patmore asked. Thomas winced at the name, a flash of images sparking through his mind like gunpowder set ablaze. He could see Jimmy’s smile, the twist of his hips when he rounded a corner, the way he held a tray aloft or sneered at Alfred mid card game- he closed his eyes to try and block it out. 

_“There’s nothin’ between us but my fists if y’don’t get out!”_

His teacup rattled on its saucer. Thomas immediately sat it down upon the table, not wanting Mrs. Patmore to know how the name had unnerved him. He began to rub his gloved hand in an attempt to make it look like his wound was acting up instead of his emotions. 

Then he remembered he’d been holding the teacup with his ungloved hand and felt like a moron. He pursed his lips, and open his eyes. 

Daisy was glaring at Mrs. Patmore. He’d caught them mid silent conversation with Daisy flushed and jerking a hand at Thomas as if to say _‘don’t upset him’_ while Mrs. Patmore glared right back and held a hand up with the silent reply of _‘I didn’t say it to try and upset him!’._

When they caught Thomas watching, Daisy immediately dropped her hand and refilled her teacup instead. She looked mildly flustered, but she smiled at Thomas none the less. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Daisy asked, nodding to his hip. Thomas looked down at where the wound was hidden beneath his trousers and pants. The truth of the matter was that Thomas wasn’t feeling better. Indeed, he almost felt worse and his wound looked like hell. It was now black and purple, bruised in an awful sickly patch so that it appeared like Thomas had been stabbed mid-mugging instead of cut with a scalpel by a learned doctor. 

“A little,” Thomas tried not to lie, “Thank you.” He added after a moment, taking another sip of tea. 

“I thought the tea might help your joints.” Daisy said with a smile. Mrs. Patmore was beginning to scowl at her again, though she was yet to verbally interject. 

“It’s exactly what I needed.” Thomas said, and Daisy flushed with pride as she ate another ginger biscuit. 

“What are the Sinderby’s like?” Daisy asked around the cookie, curious. Thomas shrugged, for in truth he really hadn’t been paying attention to the Sinderby’s so much as he’d been paying attention to Lord Merton wooing Lady Crawley. 

“Well,” Thomas sighed with eyes cast to the ceiling- he noted there was a crack in it that ought to be repaired, “Lady Sinderby is alright, but Lord Sinderby is no push over, make no mistake.” 

“It seems odd that we should be having a big dinner when Lady Edith is missing-“ Daisy said, her voice dropping as if nervous Carson might walk in at any moment and scold them for gossiping. After nearly fifteen years of being hounded by Carson day and night, Thomas no longer feared his scolding. What he feared was Carson walking up on him, and spooking the living daylights out of him in front of other people. 

“Mmm, she’s not missing.” Thomas assured her; Daisy listened with rapt attention, “You mark my words, she’s in London at her publishing firm. She wants to be near Gregson’s memory.” 

God only knows if Jimmy had died, Thomas would drift back to the place he’d known Jimmy best (the piano in the servant’s hall). Would stay there, for as long as he could, to soak up whatever remained off of whatever surface he could touch. 

“And I suppose they couldn’t put a dinner off, not so close to the gun.” Thomas added as an afterthought. 

Daisy was staring at him, watching him as if she’d never seen him properly before. Mrs. Patmore was glaring now, full out and unafraid to hide it, her meaty arms crossed over her chest in a huff as she watched Daisy watch Thomas. 

Thomas set his tea cup down, careful not to rattle the saucer twice as he kept his eyes on Daisy’s. 

He didn’t know why, but he suddenly found himself wanting to watch Daisy better, to connect to someone in the house. To make a bridge of friendship, to find an ally in the dark. Since that night in the upstairs hallway, Daisy had treated Thomas quite differently than usual. Had almost seemed to enjoy his presence, hunger for conversation. It was an incredibly rare sensation, to be wanted. 

And who was Thomas to deny her, when he was so lonely he could die? 

“… Are you having any more trouble in math?” Thomas asked, for despite having offered to tutor her she’d yet to take him up on it. Daisy began to frown, setting her own teacup aside. 

“… I don’t know if there’s a point.” Daisy admitted, and she seemed almost ashamed of her words. 

“How do you mean?” Thomas asked, keeping his tone soft. He’d heard her earlier in the kitchen and had a feeling he knew why she thought it was useless… but it would do better to hear it from her mouth first. 

“What’s the point of me trying to better myself?” Daisy asked, not looking at Thomas or Mrs. Patmore. She traced a drift of flour upon the kitchen island, making it into a tiny pile and pinching it away to deposit it in the sink behind her, “It’ll get me no where. No matter what I do I’ll always be a servant, and I’ll always be stuck.” 

“Daisy…” Thomas scoffed though his tone was still soft. Daisy glanced up, a flush on her cheeks, “You’re far from stuck.” 

She waited, and Thomas could see he had her full and utter attention. 

“You have an avenue at Mr. Mason’s farm.” Thomas began, parroting Anna’s words from earlier, “When you have a property you have choices, and you’ve been given a chance to free yourself from this shackle whenever you choose.” Thomas gestured about to the house, though Mrs. Patmore was scoffing aloud to him for referencing it as a shackle, “So long as you’re prepared for the work.” 

Daisy was still silent, he pressed on. 

“Farms are self sustained.” Thomas was now parroting his father’s words, or rather his grandfather’s words… a man he could hardly remember, though he’d often held Thomas in his arms and kissed him on the cheek- he’d had a full beard and the sensation had been whiskery, “They can survive on crop or animal, and last through depression and war. The demand for food and field is constant. You’ve got a future ahead of you in it.” 

Daisy looked down at the kitchen island again though there was no more flour to clean up, “But just say I”m too stupid to take it on. Say I’m stuck after being out of school for so long-“ 

“The first person to call you stupid gets a black eye from me.” Thomas warned, and he meant it. 

Daisy was far from stupid, and he wouldn’t hear it said. Daisy flushed, grinning now from ear to ear. Mrs. Patmore looked downright alarmed, her glare slipping away into something closer to fear. Thomas tried to pay her no mind, unsure of what had her so afraid. Was Daisy smiling so rare? 

“Math is easy, Daisy.” Thomas assured her, “Like making a soufflé or custard. Once you get the hang of it you can do it night and day… and you don’t have to learn massive formulas. All you need is math to run a farm.” 

He shifted, reaching for his teacup, but as he did so his hip brushed the back of a chair and Thomas winced as it came into light contact with his sutures. God he wished he could scream! He kept a clamp on his jaw, unsure of what would come out should he relax even a little. 

When he straightened back up, teacup in hand, Daisy was looking at him (or rather his hip) and seemed very concerned. 

“Is it your leg that’s hurt?” Daisy asked. Thomas nodded. 

“More like my hip.” Thomas explained. 

“Did you throw it out?” She asked. Thomas rolled his eyes. 

“I wish.” He grumbled into his teacup, taking a deep sip, “Then I could throw the damn thing back in and be done with it.” 

He wondered how long it would take for his sutures to heal. In war it had been a matter of keeping sutures clean; time had taken on a different meaning in those days. Most soldiers who needed sutures were sent home; those that weren’t didn’t last long. Infections were quick to set in, particularly in the mud and muck… anyone with sutures had a bullseye painted on their chest. 

But Thomas had had a bullseye painted on his chest from the time he was four and realized he was more interested in other boys than girls. When princes in fairy tales caught his attention more than princesses. 

Daisy was looking at him again; that strange wistful look as if she knew every thought in his head. Thomas smiled at her, hoping he’d not put her off by staring off into space. 

“Do you ever feel trapped?” She asked in a weak whisper, her expression lost and helpless. 

“All the time.” Thomas assured her. He just didn’t have the liberty of letting it show on his face. 

“… Is that why you’re so nasty?” Daisy said. It seemed to slip from her mouth without thinking for she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror as she realized she’d said it and immediately began to apologize even as Thomas began to laugh, “I’m so sorry-!” 

“No, don’t be.” Thomas shook his head, taking another sip of tea. He finished his cup, and Daisy silently offered the kettle so that Thomas brought his tea cup over for her to refill. She did so hastily, still looking very apologetic even as he returned to the wall and leaned against it once more. “I understand what you meant. And no… it’s not why I’m nasty.” 

Mrs. Patmore was looking at him again with that same strange sympathetic stare. Thomas refused to acknowledge her, looking at the floor instead. 

“… I guess one day I’ll be nasty too, if I don’t watch it.” Daisy tried for a joke, anything to clear the air of her embarrassment. Thomas still thought the whole thing rather funny. “If I stay here for too long.” 

“I should hope not.” He murmured, setting his refilled tea cup down to let it cool a little. Daisy glanced at him, her gaze unsure. Eager to show there were no hard feelings, Thomas smiled at her, “It wouldn’t suit you to be nasty. Your far too lovely for that.” 

Daisy blushed furiously. Mrs. Patmore’s head snapped around to glare at Thomas, her lips pursed as if she was a second away from telling him to go stuff himself. Thomas glared back at her, unsure of where her bad attitude was coming from. Was it so awful of him to compliment Daisy? 

Daisy suddenly looked ready to faint. 

With awkward timing that could only come from a lifetime of being a clot, Moseley suddenly appeared with an eager smile in place. Thomas picked his teacup back up, sipping on it idly, wishing he could sink into the wall if only to avoid any conversation with the man. He was still ready to choke him over Phyllis Baxter, which was a sore topic for Thomas at the moment. He still didn’t know how he felt about her. He supposed grateful would be the closest word to it… but he was still incredibly embarrassed, and he knew that Phyllis knew it. 

He really didn’t like knowing that a member of the female sex had seen his bare arse. 

“Ah, Daisy, have you decided?” Mr. Moseley asked, “Shall we discuss the vices of Miss Becky Sharp?” 

But Daisy was still looking ready to faint and couldn’t be bothered with any of it. Hanging her manners, Daisy stumbled past Moseley as fast as she could for the door to the stairwell, her eyes flitting to Thomas’ face even as she went. 

“I’m tired. I’m going up. Goodnight Mrs. Patmore.” She said in a rush, before either Moseley, Mrs. Patmore, or Thomas could interject. She was gone in a huff, leaving nothing but her teacup behind. Mrs. Patmore put it in the sink, looking worried and put out. 

“What’s that about?” Moseley asked, dejected at being shot down for a study session. 

“She had such hopes of the Labour Government.” Mrs. Patmore explained, though she was still scowling at Thomas, “She feels let down.” 

“But she mustn’t give up!” Moseley snorted, ever the champion of the weak. Though Moseley championing the weak was like a slightly larger ant championing other ants. Size alone made him the conquerer. 

“I don’t recall you being this keen when Miss Bunting was teaching her.” Mrs. Patmore sounded slightly skeptical as she scooted about the kitchen, checking the load in the sink even as she refilled her tea cup. She offered a cup to Moseley but he shook his head. 

“I wouldn’t interfere with a professional, but now that she’s gone, I’d like to help if I can.” 

“Sounds to me as if you’ve missed out on your vocation. Tell Daisy, perhaps you can change her mind.” Mrs. Patmore offered. Thomas rolled his eyes, knowing full well that would never work. Convincing Daisy to do something would require someone of stronger stuff that Moseley. 

“She wouldn’t listen to me.” Moseley admitted. 

“Well spotted.” Thomas muttered aloud, earning him a nasty glare from Moseley that he pointed ignored. But he carried on, his mind flashing over every figure in Daisy’s life who might stand a chance at persuading her. Carson was against it, Hughes was too similar to Patmore… she needed someone outside the house, someone unaffected by Downton’s cogs and gears. 

“What about Mr. Mason?” Thomas said. Suddenly Mrs. Patmore looked slightly more impressed with him than before. 

“Funnily enough, Mr. Barrow might be right for once.” Mrs. Patmore remarked; Thomas narrowed his eyes at her. 

“How do we get him to speak to her?” Moseley asked Mrs. Patmore. Thomas had a feeling he’d rather choke on a pinecone than talk to Thomas himself at this point. Not that he cared much. 

“Let me think on it.” Mrs. Patmore said, and Moseley seemed satisfied. If anyone could come up with a solution, it would be Mrs. Patmore. Even Thomas was confident in her sway. With nothing more to say, Moseley turned to go but not before he glared at Thomas like he wanted Thomas to be set ablaze. 

Thomas couldn’t have given less of a shit. 

Suddenly it was just Thomas and Mrs. Patmore in the kitchen, and Thomas was more than aware of Mrs. Patmore’s ugly glare as he continued to sip his tea. What he couldn’t fathom was how he’d earned it when he’d only been kind to Daisy. He supposed he’d been a little sharp with Moseley, but well-polished spoons could be sharp compared to Moseley so what was the big deal? 

“Don’t you start.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled as Thomas raised an eyebrow at her pointedly. 

“I wasn’t aware I _started_ anything.” Thomas snorted, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to enlighten me to my transgressions, oh queen?” 

Mrs. Patmore leaned over the kitchen island, meaty hands splayed wide and weight heavy upon the wood; she was a rather dominating figure, but not near as frightening as his own father was. Mrs. Patmore might threaten to knife you, but she’d never go through with it. His father wouldn’t even give you the liberty of a warning; he’d just slash your throat and go about the rest of his day. Thomas knew which one he preferred. 

“You know what you’re doing and you can’t fool me.” Mrs. Patmore warned, “What were those comments for, calling Daisy ‘lovely’?” 

“Well forgive me if I don’t find her depression appealing to observe. Is it such a crime to be kind?” Thomas snapped. Was that what had earned him such scorn? Calling Daisy ‘lovely’? 

“Wish you’d been kind eight or so years ago.” Mrs. Patmore sneered, her glare sharpening as Thomas’s nostrils flared, “Might have spared William a whole lot of grief.” 

Thomas winced, looking away. Still Mrs. Patmore continued on. 

“People like to forget that lad, but I never have and I never will.” 

“You make it sound like I have.” Thomas said; the truth couldn’t be farther from. William was a boulder on his conscience that would never be alleviated. There were times, particularly late at night when memories of Jimmy kept him awake when he felt he might die under the weight. When he wished William were alive if only that he might apologize and just be done with it. He wondered, when he died, if God might give him one moment to speak to William before he kicked Thomas into hell and left him there to burn. 

True he’d be frying in hell for all eternity while the devil shat down his throat, but at least he’d no longer have the burden of bullying William on his chest. Small steps…. small steps. 

“Haven’t you?” Mrs. Patmore tested, “What with Alfred and Jimmy-“ 

Thomas’s teacup rattled wildly. Thomas threw up a hand to stop it, but he nearly dropped the entire set in the process and ended up slamming the teacup down upon the sitting table just to keep it all from shattering on the floor. 

Mrs. Patmore had gone silent. Thomas avoided looking at her, knowing full well that she was given him that damned sympathetic look 

“… I’m sorry.” Mrs. Patmore said, and she truly sounded it, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Jimmy. I know you care for him-“ 

“Don’t.” Thomas snapped, his heart beginning to pick up its pace in his chest. He wouldn’t have this conversation with Mrs. Patmore (with anyone)… not now nor ever. 

An ugly beat of silence followed as Thomas regained a stoic expression and straightened up to look Mrs. Patmore in the face once more. The sympathy he found there was unbearable but he was determined not to look away, determined to face it head on until the sympathy slipped and normalcy resumed. 

He was certain Mrs. Patmore knew everything; was certain that Mrs. Hughes had told her how she’d found him crying like a child in the courtyard and soothed him in her sitting room till he’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion at her table. There was a chance Mrs. Hughes hadn’t told her simply out of respect for Thomas’ privacy… but still. Mrs. Patmore knew the reason behind Thomas near damnation, and that was more than enough. His eternal shame… Thomas couldn’t bear facing it. There was a time when he’d been unapologetic for “the incident”. But now, in light of Jimmy’s departure and his own loneliness, Thomas regretted every minute of the entire fucking affair. Regretted ever letting his feelings get so wildly out of hand. Meeting Jimmy had been fate, or so he believed. Befriending him had been a true opportunity, an incredibly coincidence he treasured… but falling in love with Jimmy had been fucking unavoidable. From the minute that Jimmy had wound that clock with him, Thomas had been destroyed body and soul. 

He hated people knowing that. Knowing that he adored Jimmy when Jimmy couldn’t care a whit. 

He felt like a fool under the spotlight. 

“I suppose you haven’t heard from him, have you?” Mrs. Patmore sounded quite sad, though Thomas couldn’t understand why. What concern of it was hers that Thomas had received no news? Mrs. Patmore nodded at his silence, taking it for a negative, and offered him a gentle smile that he did not return, “Give him a while.” She murmured softly, “He’ll come round.” 

“I should think he’d be eager to get as far away from Downton as possible.” Thomas snorted for he highly doubted Jimmy would ever be returning for a visit. 

“You what I mean-“ 

“I’m sure I don’t.” Thomas muttered nastily, and he picked up his tea cup sans saucer to sip it before it got too cold. The sooner he finished it the sooner he could leave and suddenly he was quite eager to do so. 

“…He cared for you a great deal.” Mrs. Patmore said softly. Thomas bristled, unable to bear the shame of it, “I watched him, you know. I watched how he acted around you. He never cared for Ivy- you were the sun of his world-“ 

Thomas couldn’t take it. He set his teacup down with a hard smack, uncaring that a droplet or two of tea flew over the side from the force, and stormed out of the kitchen. Mrs. Patmore, unable to give up or take a hint, followed him right out into the servants hall even as he made a beeline for Mr. Carson’s office. 

“Thomas! Where are you going, limp and all- I suppose you aren’t going to tell me why you can’t walk straight?” 

“I’m going for a walk, Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas snapped, “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

He needed a walk, air, anything to get away from the oppressive sweltering heat of the kitchen and Mrs. Patmore. She followed him right into the hallway, even as Thomas jerked the door open to Mr. Carson’s office and grabbed his coat off the hat stand behind the door. He shrugged it on, noting that Mr. Carson was mercifully not at his desk, and took the spare key to the back door from its hook. 

“Well see if I don’t lock the door behind you!” Mrs. Patmore warned angrily from the door, clearly irritated at having been hanged mid-conversation. 

“You forget I have a key!” Thomas sneered with an acidic tone, taking the key from his pocket and waving it tauntingly before her face. He pushed past her before she could keep him a moment longer. 

“And god save us all for it!” She taunted right back, but Thomas didn’t care to reply. The back door was in sight and that was all that mattered. Yet as he mounted the steps, Mrs. Patmore seemed to feel sympathetic again. 

“Thomas, I was only trying to-“ 

“Mr. Barrow to you!” He leered; Mrs. Patmore would have none of it. Not in private at least. 

“Oh, Mr. Stick-it-up-your-jumper!” She snarled back. “You’ll always be Thomas to me!” 

Thomas feigned from bidding her goodnight, wrenching the back door open and slamming it hard behind him before she could utter another biting word. 

The night was cold and brisk. He set off into it, heedless of the jerking pain in his hip, determined to walk for as long as it took to get Mrs. Patmore’s words out of his head; he had a feeling he’d walk straight off the continent if he wasn’t careful. He pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it to take a deep drag, eager to lose himself in the burning sensation that filled his throat and lungs. His legs lost themselves in the familiar path; he was to the point where he could walk it blind now. Gravel gave way to dirt as he exited the estate drive onto the main road, heading left in the direction of Ripon and the village in general. The road was completely bare, no other passersby to be seen at this late hour of night. But that was just as Thomas like it. The less people there were to witness him walking, the better. 

The moon was his only light; covering the bare road in palest hues of blue as the deep shadows cut across the stretch like knives in the dark. Thomas drifted in and out, the tip of his cigarette a tiny flaming balm that spun and danced in the air. He was, in many ways, a specter that another traveler might mistake for a ghost. One could blink and miss him. 

Thomas diverged from the main path, taking the first side road to the left to head into the cottage grove. Here the grass grew wild, barely maintained in the steep slope that sidelined the proper entrance further up the road. Thomas avoided it simply because the Bates’ cottage was at the back of the village and walking down the main road to it would attract far too many eyes. He was like a spy in the night, slipping as quietly as he could towards the loop in the back road that would wind him around the houses and take him right to the Bates’ garden. Yet even as he walked, Mrs. Patmore’s words rang in his head, causing him to slow his pace and stumble a little over the heather. 

_“Wish you’d changed eight years ago, it might have spared William a whole lot of grief.”_

 _“People like to forget about that lad, but I never have. And I never will.”_

Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. 

His mind was drifting over to Daisy; to her sweet smiles and cautious stares. To her pauses, and her pursing lips as she recalled the man who’d adored her. Who’d trudged through a war for her. Who’d married her despite death looming near. 

_“Even all that time ago with William? Were you sick then?”_ She’d asked, completely unaware that his ‘sickness’ was his desperate desire to be loved by other men. 

And he had been sick. Sick as a dog for the Duke, sucking down twenty four bottles of stollen wine to cope with the loss of his love. But that had been no excuse to treat William so cruelly. As if he were nothing. The weight of his shame bore down upon him like an anvil in that moment. 

And suddenly his own words were coming back to him, a new plan surfacing so ludicrous and insane that it just might work: _What about Mr. Mason?_

Thomas knew next to nothing about Mr. Mason, save where he lived and what he did for a living. That he adored Daisy, and that he’d adored William when William had been alive. 

Thomas would never be able to apologize to William, not in this life at least. His only chance at closure, at gaining some type of inner peace on the subject lay in the hands of William’s father. Mrs. Patmore wrote to Mr. Mason, as did Daisy. It wouldn’t be uncommon for him to get mail from the Abbey; the real question was could Thomas persuade him in his letter to keep Thomas’ apology to himself. To understand Thomas’ situation without explaining it in-depth? 

Thomas didn’t know if it could be done, but he suddenly found his feet taking him back out onto the main road as if by their own devices. There was a sharp burning in his chest, a fierce golden humming that he’d seldom felt before save for the time he’d taken the beating for Jimmy at the Thirsk fair and rescued Lady Edith from a fiery grave. 

He didn’t know if it had a name, that humming pain within him. He supposed it was his conscience rearing its head, reminding him if only briefly that he was a good man capable of good things. 

He was running, and didn’t even know it till he felt the searing pain in his hip; he hung back to a trot, unable to go much faster without being in serious pain that bordered on unbearable. He knew the post office, like the hospital and churches, had an avenue open for late night emergencies. He knew it was expensive, that rates sky rocketed after nine at night…. but he also knew that come tomorrow morning Mr. Mason would have a letter in his post box. It would not be enough. It would not be _near_ enough… but it would be all that Thomas could feasibly give, and he prayed Mr. Mason would understand. He didn’t care if it took him twenty sheets to write his apology… His peace of mind was worth the cost. _William_ was worth the cost.

Thomas made it to the village proper close to ten, and the midnight messenger boy looked dully surprised to find that anyone was eager to write a letter so late at night when Thomas finally approached the post office. It took Thomas six pence to pay for the entire lot: paper, and post… he nicked a pen from the messenger boy when he wasn’t looking and drafted the entire letter outside the post office on a bench, kept company only by the stars and the rare passerby on their way home for the evening. 

He’d smoked four cigarettes by the time he was finished and ended up writing eleven pages of explanation and repentance. Near the end it had come damn close to begging. He wished he had it in him to write eleven more pages, but the entire process had downright exhausted him. So he mailed the letter off, and tried not to summon any second regrets when he handed it off to the messenger boy. On his walk back from the post office, Thomas felt oddly lighter thought not entirely happier, and he resumed his normal route around the back end of the Bates’ cottage. It was easy work, unlatching their garden gate from the inside with a briar stick and slipping inside to find Anna’s vegetable patch. The golden glow emitting from the kitchen window kept Thomas on high alert as he slunk against the shadows of the wicker wall. He hid like a naughty child, his eyes gleaming with impish delight when he spotted both strawberries and tomatoes for the taking. 

Five minutes later Thomas was back out around front, garden gate relocked and garden goods plundered to hide beneath the front sill of the Bates’ sitting room window. His hat served as a makeshift bowl, holding his tomatoes and strawberries as he rolled them about between his fingers and ate them slowly. These were succulents meant to be savored, treasured, and Thomas could have sworn in that moment that they could cure cancer. 

He had to admit, Anna was a dab hand at gardening. Tomatoes and strawberries so late in the season? This was a proper feast, fit for kings indeed. Crouched beneath their sitting room window, hidden in the shrubbery that lined their front walls, Thomas rested with his head just below the sill and peeled the skin off a grape tomato with care. He took his time, nibbling the tiniest hole into the flesh of the tomato and then sucking the pulp out from within. It was salty and sweet in his mouth, a deep fruity essence that reminded him of his mother’s own garden before her health had pinned her indoors. She’d grown nearly everything in her garden, and he’d followed her around in it as a toddler. 

_‘Pick the carrots!’_ she’d say, and he’d delightedly take about a tin bucket to go from carrot to carrot. His hands had been so tiny that he’d had to dig the carrots out partially before he could finally wrestle them free from the dirt. He’d tried to eat a few of them before washing them first; he could still remember his mother scooping him up off the ground to wipe the dirt from his open mouth. 

_‘Tommy!’_ she’d admonished, laughing even as he spluttered and spat at her invading fingers. _‘Wash them first, you daft booger!’_

She’d been the first person to ever treat Thomas with kindness… but then again Thomas supposed that wasn’t uncommon. Mothers loved their children instinctively. In a way that made her kindness irrelevant, and the thought made him sick to his stomach. 

He went back to eating his grape and tried not dwell on it anymore. 

“Is our life over-complicated?” 

Thomas’ ears perked up at the sound of Bates’ rumbling tones. His voice was like smoke captured in glass- dark and shady but with a clear quality to it. 

“Yes” Thomas muttered to himself in snarky answer to Bates’ question. 

“In what way?” Anna asked. 

“Mrs. Patmore is buying a house up here. Why don’t we sell the London house and do the same? We could rent it out as long as we want to work at Downton-“ 

“And then live in it when we retire?” 

“…We had a dream once. Of a small hotel in the area. And a London house, even a little one would buy something substantial up here.” 

Thomas smiled, nibbling now on a strawberry; the crisp taste was in sharp contrast to the prior tomato. 

So they wanted to make a small hotel in the area? That was a nice dream, Thomas had to admit, hiding beneath their sill and imagining it. _“Bates’ Bed and Breakfast”_ it might read, boasting Anna’s home cooking and Bates’ bar tending abilities. They could have a tiny pub in the base of it, offering meals to weary travelers that were passing through; a bed for the night if they were too exhausted to carry on. They’d have white linens in the windows and a wicker gate that opened on a rope hinge. Thomas could see it so clearly, as if it were already in existence. It would be peaceful and bright. 

He closed his eyes and imagined stepping inside. Imagined how queer it would be to be greeted like an old friend instead of a bitter rival. He’d walk in and Bates’ would look up from the bar where a few men might be having an ale, and raise his hand in happy welcome. 

_“Thomas!”_ He might say _“It’s been ages! How are you! How’s Jimmy?”_

Thomas eyes snapped open, his thoughts betraying him even as he ate Anna’s strawberries. If he’d been alone, Thomas might have lashed out and kicked a tree for his own stupidity. As it stood he simply buried his head between his knees and took a deep slow breath. 

He didn’t know what was more far fetched: Bates’ greeting him as a friend, or him ever seeing Jimmy again. 

“I hate to say his name.” Anna spoke up again, slight trepidation in her lilting voice, “but… do you feel the whole business of Mr. Green might be over? For us, I mean.” 

Thomas raised his head, his entire being suddenly focused on the conversation behind the window pane. 

He knew it, _he knew it!_ He knew there was some damn connection between Bates’ and that dead valet. Good god alive, had Bates’ actually killed a man this time? Thomas tried to imagine Bates’ killing a man, and it unnerved him at how natural the image was. Even without a bias, it was clear to him that Bates’ had a temper… and a vicious streak that it seemed only Thomas could see. 

Then again, Bates’ had thrown him into a wall. Maybe that made him biased. 

“Well, they seem to have accepted the fact that I spent the day in York, and Ms. Baxter has given them nothing new to go on.” Bates’ replied, and Thomas let out a little huff. 

So Bates’ hadn’t killed the valet; had in fact spent the day in York. But then what was the damn connection? If he hadn’t killed him, why had the police suspected in the first place that he might have? Admittedly Green had been a pain in the ass while staying at Downton and Bates’ had never taken to him… but that was small beer to convict a man on. 

“So we can dare to plan our future again? Like normal people?” 

_‘Sod that’._ Thomas wanted to snarl, _‘If you think YOU’RE abnormal have I got news for you’._

They were married and cozily tucked away in a cottage. Thomas was hiding beneath their sill with no idea where Jimmy might be and doomed to die alone, eating their vegetables like a criminal hiding from the bobbies. 

“Does that mean what I hope it means?” Bates’ asked; there was an odd tilt to his tone, a weird… humor. Must be an inside joke. 

“Mr. Bates,” Anna admonished. “I thought you’d decided to believe me when I said that device was Lady Mary’s.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes, “For gods sake woman call him John, he’s your damn husband isn’t he?” Thomas muttered under his breath, far too soft for anyone else to hear. And what was this prattle about a device belonging to Lady Mary? 

“I do believe you.” Bates’ assured her at once, his tone now gentle and soft, “I don’t know why she wanted it, but I believe you.” 

“Well then.” Anna sounded quite pleased with herself. 

“You don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with us, do you?” Bates’ asked, and at this he seemed to be genuinely worried. Once again, Thomas found himself far from sympathetic. There was utterly nothing wrong with the Bates’. They were damn perfect. 

“No.” Anna paused, “I think it take some people longer than others. That’s all.” 

… What the hell were they talking about? 

“What would I do without you?” Bates praised. 

_‘Probably hide beneath someone’s sill and eat their vegetables.’_ Thomas mused darkly, taking a vicious bite out of a final tomato.


	4. Fox Hill Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “William was everything I could not be.” Thomas said, for it was the truth and lies could not stand in this household. There was simply no room for them, no room for people like Thomas who thrived in them. “And I loathed him for it-“ 
> 
> He paused, looking Mr. Mason dead in the face as he carried on. He wanted Mr. Mason to see it in his eyes, to know his sincerity. 
> 
> “Make no mistake.” Thomas whispered, “I loathed your son.”

Daylight had a funny way of changing a man. 

The more he thought about it, the more Thomas lamented sending the letter to Mr. Mason. It had been a stupid- _incredibly stupid_ \- idea, simply because now Mr. Mason might give cause to visit Downton and crush Thomas’ skull in and who would blame the poor man if he did? What honest good came from digging up the past like Thomas had in writing that letter, rehashing it all in the glaring light of day, save that now Thomas felt like all the cards were on the table and he’d made the closing act in his argument against William Mason. He slept slightly easier at night, though that could admittedly have had something to do with the fact that there was no longer an abscess rotting in his hip. He imagined he might be sleeping a whole lot better once Mr. Mason came round and smashed his head into the wall. There was no rest so deep as a coma. 

Thomas tried to imagine how he’d react if someone confessed to bullying his own child though to be fair it was a pointless exercise. He’d never have children being a homosexual so what would it matter… but as he put himself in that hypothetical (and ludicrous) situation he came to the same unnerving conclusion as any other man: he’d break the bully’s neck. Now he was downright nervous that Mr. Mason was going to do the same, was going to smash his face into the dirt while the others watched and probably cheered. God only knows he didn’t have many he could call friends in his life, and none of them were among the servant staff. 

Well, there was Phyllis but she was more like the big sister he’d never wanted and couldn’t shake. 

Really he shouldn’t be thinking about such disturbing things as Mr. Mason ramming his head into a wall. Thomas was currently in a three way conversation with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, and such dialogues required large levels of mental stamina if he were to pursue then and not be found out for an idiot. What he’d give to have the role of a footman at times, to simply be given silver to polish and be left bloody well alone. After five years of running the house with Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore, Thomas longed for the days when he could sequester himself off from the world in the boot room. Avoiding Carson had been easy as a footman and even easier as a valet. As the under butler? It was impossible. They practically worked atop one another. 

“We’ll have a six course meal followed by brandies, but we might want to layer the liquor selection given Lord Merton’s oldest son is gracing our table again.“ Mr. Carson stood shoulder to shoulder with Mrs. Hughes, signing off the updated inventory between them before passing a newly scripted inventory to Thomas who took it up and glanced it over. When it rained, it poured, and suddenly both Lord Merton’s sons were coming to dinner again along with the Sinderby’s (because _apparently_ that was a _good idea?_ ). Mr. Carson naturally wanted to show out, and Thomas couldn’t blame him when Lord Merton’s sons were notoriously snobbish and wealthy, but it was coming at the risk of catering to an asshole and Thomas wondered if he could feasibly get away with slipping arsenic into the older son’s drink. 

Then again, Branson might pop a screw during the after dinner drinks— arsenic might be totally unneeded. Best avoid a prison sentence if he could. 

“And lord help us all for it.” Mrs. Hughes sighed; Thomas noticed Phyllis walking into the servant’s hall out of the corner of his eye. He knew the Bates’ were sitting in there. He had a feeling the situation might dissolve rapidly from tension. Thomas narrowed his eyes, unable to leave Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes mid conversation but still wanting to make sure Phyllis didn’t fall into a snake pit. God only knows arguing with John Bates was like going up against a baited bear. 

“I’ll update the stocks again before Sunday night. With luck it’ll hold us through the fiasco.” Mr. Carson decided, and Thomas did not miss the look Carson gave him, small but still significant in its meaning. There were very few jobs that Carson did not trust Thomas with after five years of being the under butler. One of them involved updating the liquor cabinet. To be fair, Carson seemed to get a natural high from decanting the wine and he was loath to give up the job to Thomas on base principle, but there was also the fact that Thomas had nicked twenty-four bottles of wine in his youth. Carson was not one to forget. It was unfortunate that Carson refused to take a tour of his revolting world, otherwise Thomas would be happy to explain that his nicking the wine had come from the spin off of a disastrous fall out with Phillip. Nothing like being thrown over for a whore to make you want a drink (or twenty). 

“Mr. Carson, try to keep a positive eye-“ Mrs. Hughes’ voice was laced with the tiniest bit of warm humor. 

“I was under the impression that was your job Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas tucked the new inventory under his arm; he ought to get started right away if he were to make it to bed before midnight tonight. Mrs. Hughes gave him a wry grin. 

“We all have our roles in this house.” Mr. Carson’s tone was taking a decidedly unfriendly edge which Thomas pointedly chose to ignore. 

“And what is your role Mr. Carson?” Mrs. Hughes joked. 

“Keeping _this one_ in line.” Mr. Carson leered, jerking his head at Thomas. Thomas scowled, saying nothing lest they fall out. Mr. Carson moved off in a clear direction for the liquor cabinet, and suddenly Mrs. Hughes and Thomas were left alone. Mrs. Hughes tapped him on the elbow, a twinkle in her weary eyes. 

_“Gnashgab.”_ Thomas muttered darkly under his breath; Mrs. Hughes pinched his elbow in cheek and Thomas lightly swatted her hand away with a wince. 

“I just wanted to be helpful-“ Thomas overheard Phyllis voice becoming strained from the servant’s hall and raised a hand in pause to Mrs. Hughes. She raised her eyebrows at him defiantly. 

“Excuse me.” Thomas muttered, stepping around Mrs. Hughes and entering the servant’s hall to find both Anna and John Bates’ glaring at Phyllis from the table while Moseley sat in the corner as useful as a loaf of bread. Phyllis flittered nervously around the backs of chair.

“We know how you like to be helpful, Ms. Baxter.” Bates’ voice was growing nastier by the minute. Such effects were useless on Thomas after fifteen years, but Phyllis was getting more nervous by the minute (not that he could blame her). Slowly coming around the backs of the chairs, Thomas inched ever closer to Phyllis who was growing paler and sweatier as Bates’ progressed, “By talking to the police about us-“ 

“Excuse me.” Moseley popped up out of his chair, but once again any influence from him was about as good as half brewed pot of tea, “I couldn’t help overhearing. Ms. Baxter won’t say it but she’s in a difficult position.” 

“On the contrary, Ms. Baxter keeps saying it.” Bates was not one to argue with Moseley, but his voice still kept that hardened edge, “She says nothing else.” 

Phyllis looked ready to crack; Thomas caught her eye. They stared at one another for a moment, Phyllis silently pleading and Thomas weighing up the odds of Moseley holding any sway over Bates. 

Moseley was worthless; Phyllis saving grace was in his own hands alone.

“Mr. Moseley, can you remove the baize from the tables, please?” Thomas murmured, never taking his eyes off Phyllis. He didn’t need to look at Moseley to know he was glaring, but Thomas once again couldn’t be moved to care. His concern lay for Phyllis, for her ability to hold against Bates. If Moseley wanted to take offense, he bloody well could do it on his own time. 

Yet as Thomas’ sharp eyes roved to Bates’ face, Bates seemed to realize that Thomas had gotten rid of Moseley in order to steer the conversation himself. Something heavy was weighing on his mind, something dark; Bates was in no mood to tangle with Thomas. 

“I’m ready to go up.” Bates’ rose up, snatching his cane and heading for the door. 

“I’ll go with you.” Anna moved off after him; suddenly Thomas and Phyllis were left alone in the servant’s hall. He heard her exhale sharply, her breath trembling from nerves. 

Thomas looked at her again and found her close to tears. 

“Ignore them.” He murmured softly. 

“I can’t.” Phyllis whispered, “I feel sorry for them.” 

“Then tell them why you had to talk to the police.” Thomas urged.

Mr. Mason was already bound to come up to Downton for a visit to smash Thomas’ head into the wall. Why not make it a double and get Bates involved as well? Thomas wouldn’t mind being thrown about like a sack of potatoes if it helped Phyllis avoid conflict. 

“I’d feel ashamed.” Phyllis said, and Thomas suddenly realized that she thought he was referring to her own past tangling with the law. Before Thomas could correct her, Phyllis had left the servant’s hall. Thomas was suddenly alone with his thoughts, none of them pleasant, and he fiddled momentarily with the fresh inventory before heading back off into the stairwell. 

Thomas knew all about feeling shame, sure enough. 

~*~

A day passed, and then another, and as Friday came around Thomas was on continuous tenterhooks in regards to Mr. Mason’s reply. He’d yet to receive one through post but he felt certain that one had to be coming. Surely Mr. Mason would have something to say to him; would want to yell at him through paper and pen at the very least? Thomas couldn’t stand the not knowing, the constantly looking around every corner. He didn’t even know what Mr. Mason looked like, so every time an older man came to the back door with a delivery Thomas’ heart jumped into his mouth. It was amazing how no one else had picked up on his jumpy behavior, but then again Thomas had been on death’s door a week or so ago and no one besides Phyllis had dared to comment on it extensively. If a spoon was an inch off the mark, Carson knew it from three rooms over and came running up to fix it at once. If an employee was on the verge of a mental crisis, no one was the wiser and life carried on as usual. Ah the joys of being a servant. 

It was lunchtime, and Thomas sat across from Phyllis with a slight lean to his posture. He was no longer clinging to the edge of his seat, praying for death, but his wound was still quite fresh and it smarted painfully if he dared to lean on it too heavily. Instead he kept one leg slightly elevated higher than the other, removing most of the pressure from his left buttock as he hid his odd posture beneath the table and prayed Moseley wouldn’t notice two seats down. True to her form, Phyllis kept giving him amused expressions as if she was more than aware of his awkward seating position; Thomas flashed her a small smile which she returned. 

“How are you feeling?” Phyllis asked, passing Thomas a piece of buttered toast. He accepted it with wordless thanks. 

“Better day by day.” Thomas admitted, for it was true he was miles ahead in the healing process from where he’d been last Saturday, “I can at least take the medicine now without getting sick every time.” 

There was nothing quite like getting sick in a public bathroom. Thomas had made sure to take his antibiotic in the dead of night, hiding from the others lest they find him unwell and ask too many questions. At first, he’d vomited quite a lot and had found sleep difficult to come by; there was a constant acidic taste in the back of his throat that made him longed for water or tea to wash it down. By Tuesday night, however, Thomas could take his pills without vomiting. That strange burning sensation in his throat persisted however; it was starting to give Thomas a raspy whisper to his voice. 

“Is your hip getting any better?” Phyllis asked with a slight smirk upon her lips. Thomas scowled at her. 

The polite phrase was ‘hip’, but Thomas knew very well that Phyllis meant ‘arse’. He could technically say the wound was on his hip and get away with it when someone couldn’t see the wound beneath his trousers and pants. But Phyllis knew the truth, and that irked him endlessly. 

“It’s still quite… inflamed.” Thomas said; Phyllis let out the tiniest snort. She caught sight of Thomas’ scowling expression and passed him an apple in apologetic tribute. He accepted it, using a knife to cut it in two, and offered a piece back to Phyllis who took it without question. It was weird, the pair of them sharing an apple when this time last week Thomas had had a pulsing wound in his arse and had wanted to shoot Phyllis in the face for simply existing. 

Life was funny. 

“It’s not infected though, and that’s a step up from where we were.” Phyllis said between a bite of apple, “I hope this dinner won’t exhaust you-“ 

“I’ll be fine.” Thomas assured her, slightly irritated at the idea of being thought too weak to serve, “Don’t worry about me. You’ve already spared more than enough grief in my corner.” 

Phyllis just smiled, “Maybe I like to look out for you.” 

“Then fool on you for it.” Thomas replied. 

Daisy came through the door to the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea in hand, and when she placed it upon the table she smiled at Thomas in such a way that it gave him pause. This was not the first time that Daisy had taken a keen interest in him, smiling or offering him special treatment. The only difference was that last time Thomas had shamelessly used her and this time Thomas was tentative to offer her hope back. He didn’t want to give the wrong impression. He accepted the pot of tea none the less, pouring Phyllis a cup and then one for himself. Daisy looked ready to speak, but Mr. Carson suddenly entered the hall with a tray in hand bearing the afternoon post. Thomas’ heart leapt into his throat as Carson passed behind his chair, momentarily fearing Mr. Mason had written back. The letter instead went to Moseley who accepted it at once to open it post haste. 

Thomas nearly choked mid sip of tea when Moseley exclaimed “It’s a letter from Mr. Mason!” 

Thomas hid his flustered expression behind his tea cup, but Phyllis had caught on and was raising an eyebrow in pointed concern while Daisy wondered, “What, my Mr. Mason?” aloud. 

“Your Mr. Mason.” Moseley agreed with a kind smile, “He wants you and me to come to the farm tomorrow for luncheon. If we can get the time off-“ But something in the letter gave Moseley pause. Daisy took the letter, slightly confused, yet as she read her smile only grew. Thomas caught Phyllis eye, eager to glaze over how he’d coughed on his tea. 

“Why don’t you go with them?” Thomas poured her another cup. “I’m sure her ladyship wouldn’t mind-“ 

“What’s it to you?” Phyllis replied coyly, though she hid a bashful smile upon her lips. 

“Well, you did me a good turn when I’d done you a bad one. So I think you deserve a treat.” Thomas noticed how Phyllis’ smile grew sincere, her eyes crinkling with delight at his words. 

“I don’t know how much of a treat it would be seeing as he wants you to come too.” Moseley grumbled. 

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat in his chest, and from the numbing sensation growing in his lips he felt as if the blood were draining out of his face. The letter lay in Daisy’s grip, and he extended a hand for it at once. She gladly gave it over, and he scanned the letter as fast as he could to find mention of his name:

_—I feel that I ought to extend you a proper hand in thanks for taking care of my Daisy; Mrs. Patmore has told me you’re a clever man, and I think she will benefit highly from your teaching skills. Why not come to luncheon tomorrow if you can get appropriate time off? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d be grateful if a Mr. Thomas Barrow could join you, whom I understand is the under butler? I have a few things I wish to discuss with him, seeing as Mrs. Patmore has informed me that he too tutors Daisy in the subject of math._

“Damn…” The curse slipped from under his breath; Phyllis mercifully was too caught up conversing with Moseley to notice his slip in character though Daisy was offering him a peculiar smile. He handed the letter back to Daisy at once. 

“He’s right though, it would do you good.” Moseley looked far too hopeful, ridiculously obvious in his affection. 

“But I’ve not been asked.” Phyllis tried. 

“Mr. Mason would be glad to see you,” Daisy assured her, “and what’s one more with the three of us are already going… but would Mr. Carson let us go?” 

And suddenly there was Mrs. Patmore in the doorway, looking very smug and sure of herself. Thomas’ heart was still racing, as he suddenly saw an avenue out to avoid Mr. Mason. 

“I probably can’t get away.” Thomas put on his best sigh; Patmore raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh I think he’ll manage if you allow me to handle it-“ she crossed her arms over her chest; Thomas heart skipped another beat. 

“He won’t like it when we’ve got a big dinner on-“ Thomas waved a hand, trying to dispel the entire notion, “I’ll just send my regards-“ 

“Just let me tell Mr. Carson.” Patmore cut him off, her grin growing more smug by the minute, “After all, I’m the one with the extra work.” 

“And would Ms. Baxter be able to come with us as Mr. Barrow says?” Moseley was on the verge of giving Phyllis flowers and chocolate for all the romance he poured into every syllable of her name. Thomas resisted the heavy temptation to roll his eyes. 

“I don’t see why not as long as you’re back in time.” Patmore shrugged. Thomas glared at her, silently urging Mrs. Patmore to understand his precarious position. Yet it seemed that she already knew as she gave him a beady eye. 

He looked at Daisy, smiling hopefully and eager for him to join their parade. He looked at Moseley, wary but resigned to the fact he was coming. He looked at Phyllis, who now seemed quite taken with the whole concept and was grinning from ear to ear. Finally, he looked back at Mrs. Patmore, who was as smug as ever knowing him full and well cornered.

Damn it all to hell. He was stuck. 

~*~ 

Fox Hill Farm sat on a hill, which really shouldn't have been surprising given its name, and was surrounded by quaint English countryside that would have been very soothing to the senses if Thomas wasn't five seconds away from vomiting into the heather. With graying skies overhead and the warning of rain coming on soon, the main source of color came from the ground. Fields upon fields full of flowers with their faces upturned to the heavy sky. Fox Hill Farm was awash in warm earthy tones, its roof thatched and shingled in Tudor fashion; cream colored walls and stone barriers fencing in yards of chickens and geese that chittered away without a care. The real company came from the sheep, roaming the lush plains in caravans that bleated and bayed as they grazed. It was miles away from the cold authority of Downton Abbey, the pomp and circumstance that ruled their lives with an iron fist. 

But Thomas longed for Downton in that moment, for the security of those walls and the quiet refuge of his own room. 

He marched up the hill with Phyllis on his arm; why he couldn't say but she’d latched onto him as soon as he’d gotten off the bus from Ripon and wouldn't let go as they trudged up the lane. In front of them, Moseley and Daisy made good time and though they weren't arm in arm they did carry on conversation with happy smiles. Daisy wore a yellow dress and a bowled hat, her cheeks flushed from the brisk walk. It was interesting to see her out of her kitchen apron, to know what she might wear if she were a woman without uniform. Phyllis was another odd one in her dark blue dress and brown coat. It was threadbare, hardly up to date with the fashion but Thomas didn't care. He was hardly the image of a dapper dan, though his hair was slick and his tie was straight. 

His hands were shaking; he prayed Phyllis didn’t notice. 

This was going to be a disaster, a fucking disaster. He should never have sent that letter, he should never have tried to explain himself to Mr. Mason when he had no damn idea what he was going to say in person. The idea of violence had been comforting to him. Mr. Mason could have smashed his face in, and Thomas would have been perfectly fine. But sitting? Talking? Attempting to make sense of it all? He’d rather write love sonnets to Carson. He’d be more at home jumping through a fire (again). Instead, he was marching up the lane to Fox Hill Farm like one might march to their death. 

His only consolation with Phyllis, and that wasn’t nearly enough. 

“It’ll be fine, Thomas." 

He didn't believe her, and refrained from commenting lest he say something harsh. 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?" Phyllis remarked, and Thomas was glad for the change of discussion as they marched ever nearer to Fox Hill Farm. Though he nodded in agreement, he couldn’t find it in him to speak when he saw the lace curtains in the front window shift. Unless Mr. Mason had a servant, Thomas was certain that he’d been spotted coming up the way now and it made his blood run cold. No backing out, no turning around, he would only be leaving when the others left and by the way Daisy was chattering on that might be quite some time. 

He suddenly felt a cold sweat begin to overtake his palms as his heart picked up its pace. 

“You’re awfully quiet.” Phyllis remarked. “How’s your hip?” 

“Angry.” Thomas could barely get the word out. Admittedly his hip was throbbing and he doubted sitting down for a luncheon would do him much good. What he needed was something soft… like an armchair or a bed. He’d gladly forego both for a lifetime if it meant that he could avoid Mr. Mason’s questions though. 

For a minute more they walked on, now coming round the bend in the front garden path to approach the front door. It was lined with potted flowers and waist high grasses that blew lightly in the afternoon wind. Thomas suddenly felt sick to his stomach as he realized that this sight- the sight of the front of the house- was one that William would have known well and often. Would have enjoyed seeing, and run towards with open arms. Thomas was walking on the same cobblestones that William would have walked on. Was about to meet a man who had no doubt held and treasured William in his infancy. 

Thomas hung back a little as Daisy and Moseley marched forward; Phyllis, still attached to his arm, noticed and slowed her own stride, looking up at him expectantly. 

“What is it?” She asked. 

Thomas couldn’t speak. 

Lines from his letter to Mr. Mason were jumping out at him, making it difficult to breath: 

_‘You must understand, I never meant for things to go that far.’_

_‘I had no way of explaining myself without damning myself. William would not have understood; he was too innocent.’_

_‘When you’re like me, you find enemies in all corners, even in kind farm boys who never do you an injustice.’_

_‘Please, I beg of you, tell no one of this letter.’_

_‘Please.’_

The front door suddenly sprang open and Thomas instinctively jumped. From within emerged a short man with a full head of gray and white hair and a thick mustache. He had a round face and slight bags underneath his calm blue eyes; He beamed at Daisy in his tweed suit, throwing his stocky arms out wide to receive her into a tight and earnest hug as he crowed delighted to the air and stood back momentarily to observe her. 

“Mr. Mason!”   
“Daisy, my darlin’! Oh, it’s been too long… and what a pretty dress you’re wearin’.” 

A kind man, a good man, a warm hearted man. This was the cradle of William Mason’s zest for love. 

“I traded a jar of honey for it- isn’t it lovely?”   
“And you make it all the more lovelier.” 

Thomas had to close his eyes and look away, his mind suddenly filled with images from his own youth. 

_-A door being thrown open wide, a man appearing from within wearing a heavy leather apron over his lap; his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly loose. A hand in Thomas’ hair, warm and heavy as it tucked a lock behind his ear. He was in a good mood; he was sober.  
It wouldn’t last._

Thomas coughed a little, attempting to bring himself back into the present moment.   
Now was not the time to be thinking about his own father. 

“Mr. Moseley!” Mr. Mason extended a warm hand in greeting, and he hands with Moseley vigorously. Moseley was pleased to meet him, his smile sincere. 

“Mr. Mason, it’s so good to meet you at last.” Moseley greeted him. 

“And likewise! I’ve heard good things about you from Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Barrow-!” Mr. Mason said, to which Moseley looked slightly (if not pleasantly) surprised. But then Mr. Mason cast his eyes upward, looking beyond Moseley to where Thomas stood linked arm in arm with Phyllis… and Thomas felt all the blood drain from his face. 

For a split second, just long enough to be registered as a different greeting tone than used for Moseley, Mr. Mason simply looked at Thomas. Fully took him in, and registered what kind of a man he was. Phyllis was likewise an unexpected guest, but the look Mr. Mason gave her wasn’t near as wary as the look he gave Thomas… it was as if he half expected Thomas to be snide. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Mason nodded his head. Thomas nodded his head back, attempting to find the gaul to say _‘Mr. Mason’_ back; the words just wouldn’t come. 

Mr. Mason seemed to understand; he made no mention of it as he gestured to Phyllis. 

“And who is this you have with you?” Mr. Mason asked, extending his hand in greeting. Phyllis shook it at once, slipping from Thomas’ arm to step closer. Thomas alone remained in the back, suddenly overcome with the violent urge to remain as still, as quiet as possible. To simply disappear from the entire social situation altogether and be forgotten along with the wallpaper. 

“Phyllis Baxter, how do you do?” 

“Ms. Baxter is quite dear to us at the Abbey.” Moseley stated, ever the one to lavish Phyllis with compliments in his bizarre half-courtship of her, “We thought she deserved a day out.” 

“Well she’s more than welcome here!” Mr. Mason stepped to the side. 

Daisy practically skipped inside, already going on about life in the Abbey and all that Mr. Mason had missed out on since she’d last been to visit. Moseley stepped in right after her, with Phyllis close behind. Now Thomas was the only one left out in the yard, and while he sorely hoped Mr. Mason would simply let him be the last one in, Thomas highly doubted it as he stepped forward. For a minute the pair of them were side by side, saying nothing as the other three progressed into the kitchen with enthused talk about their luncheon. The air was thick between them, full of unspoken anger on Mr. Mason’s end and irritable contrition on Thomas’. 

It didn’t last for long; both of them had to move inside or they’d look bizarre glaring at each other in the doorway. 

Mr. Mason was the last in, and he shut the door behind him. 

The farm house was built for warmth, for family, and it showed it in every room. The front hallway had a hat stand with several umbrellas and coats hanging from its pegs, including Moseley’s and soon Mr. Mason’s. Thomas did not place his jacket on the peg, a silent form of protest to Mr. Masons’ tiny acts of hospitality. There would be no friendship between them, no warmth to be shared as there was with Moseley. This was not a social visit for Thomas. This was an act of repentance. He would have his luncheon and he would leave. There would be no need to dally. No need to speak.

The kitchen was laid with lunch for four, but Daisy was pulling out another set of cutlery for Phyllis who was commenting on how charming everything is. 

_Charming, charming, charming…_ Thomas wanted to vomit. 

His own childhood home had hardly been charming to the uncultured eye. It had resided over his father’s clock shop, and had been rather cramped given that there were five people living in a space meant for three at most. There had been books and clocks on every available surface; his mother had kept her sewing kit open on the living room coffee table constantly mending holes in his trousers and Margret’s dresses. His father had worked on pocket watches at the kitchen table, so that screws and pins were constantly being picked up off the floor. The windows had been far too small; often covered by shutters even in mid day. In winter it had been freezing, in summer scorching… but the temperature hadn’t been the problem. 

No, the real danger had come from the man of the house and his blood alcohol level. The higher the level, the higher percentage Thomas had of getting his ass kicked. 

He wondered if Mr. Mason drank; had ever laid hands on William in his youth or given chase around the house shooting curses like bullets. He wondered if William had ever hid in the dark, too terrified to come out lest he be struck. He wondered if William’s mother had ever been afraid; had hidden her sewing scissors for fear of them being used against her. 

He doubted it, and it pissed him off. Deeply. 

They ate together, like a queer little family, and the others talked on everything from the weather, to politics, to Daisy’s impending studies. Thomas was not at all surprised to find that Mr. Mason was sympathetic to Daisy’s plight. Like any good father he wanted her to continue her studies and as Thomas chewed delicately upon his peas and ham he thought of his own father and how he’d vehemently protested to Thomas continuing on with school after he turned ten. 

_“You’ve already learned what you need to know; I can teach you the rest.”_

But he never had taught Thomas shit, except for how to run and hide, how to wait and watch… save that Thomas could do none of these things against the one man who had hunted him the most. 

“There are millions out there who could have done so much if they’d only been given an education.” Mr. Mason was saying, urging Daisy onward. All the while Thomas could only hear his own father in his head. 

_“What is this book- WHAT IS THIS BOOK!?”_

“-Thomas?” 

He jerked instinctively, the sutures in his hip crying out even as he glanced up at Daisy to see her staring at him expectantly from across the table. Thomas didn’t know what to say- had no clue what the fuck they were even talking about. He was too wrapped up in the earthy green color of the walls, in the chipped china plates and the lace curtains at the window. In the feeling of love and warmth that pervaded this home. It was overwhelming him, overpowering him; he wanted to set the whole place on fire. To flip the table, to break the plates… anything to dent the door. Anything to make this house suffer the way he had suffered. 

Everyone was looking at him now and he had utterly no idea what they were conversing about. 

_They sat at the kitchen table, a family of five; his mother hid her face behind her hands and prayed for an end._

_His father ranted and raved, slinging every insult out known to man._

“I agree.” Thomas said, without a single fucking clue as to what he was agreeing to. Yet Daisy smiled, and Thomas felt the tension drip away from his shoulders as he realized he’d once again pulled a saving grace from his ass. Amazing what two words could do for you. 

“But what can my voice matter?” Daisy asked, and Thomas realized they were still on the topic of schooling and Daisy’s depressed view of politics. It didn’t surprise him; after all this was what they’d come to Fox Hill Farm for. 

“One grain of wheat can tip the scale, Daisy.” Thomas offered, “All it takes is one.” 

“Yes, but am I that one?” Daisy asked, as if unsure she’d ever be anything at all. Fortunately for Daisy, Thomas was an expert at pulling out one liners, particularly ones that could make others pause. 

“Why not?” Thomas offered over his coffee cup; Daisy flushed, looking momentarily at the kitchen table before glancing back up at Thomas. There was something very odd in her smile, something tender and sweet that Thomas had rarely seen pointed in his direction. 

“You have a lot of faith in me.” Daisy’s voice had shifted to match her facial expression. It was softer, kinder. Once again, Thomas had very little experience with it. 

… Though once, when Phillip had had him pressed into a mattress, he had spoke to him in that same tone. Had whispered in his ear all the plans he had for them in the future; all the ways he’d promised to make Thomas smile. 

Phillip had been lying, of course; Thomas felt the smile slide from his face at Daisy’s tone. He didn’t like that tone. 

In fact, he hated it. He never wanted to hear it again. 

“You should have faith in yourself.” Thomas warned. “All the compliments in the world won’t help you near as much as self confidence-“ 

Thomas’ words suddenly fell slack in his throat as the feeling of warm, hard hands at his back. Someone was gripping the head of his chair, and as Thomas’ eyes darted about the table he realized only one person was missing from the line up: Mr. Mason. 

“And remember there is a labour government in power.” Mr. Mason urged. 

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. Not one fucking bit. There was nothing quite so unnerving to him as having an older male behind him, gripping his chair, waiting for him to slip up. Ever so slightly, Thomas turned his head to the left, and saw the edges of Mr. Mason’s fingers coming close to the backs of his shoulder blades. 

“I doubt they’ll last the year.” Daisy lamented; meanwhile Thomas was sweating bullets and clenching the table beneath him like his life depended upon it. 

His father had pulled this move often; standing right behind Thomas and then leaning in to whisper something sinister in his ear. 

“Well, next time, when they’re elected it’ll be for longer and soon a labour government might seem quite ordinary.” Mr. Mason said;the tip of his thumb touched Thomas shoulder blade. 

It was a knee jerk reaction and one that Thomas couldn’t control- without so much as another word he rose from his chair. In three quick strides he’d crossed the kitchen; a turn later he was leaning against the counter tops lining the walls. Mr. Mason looked slightly surprised, suddenly grasping an empty chair without a clue as to why. 

To hide the shift in the atmosphere, Thomas attempted to keep on the conversation. 

“He’s right.” Thomas said, though he did not meet Mr. Mason or Daisy’s eyes as he said it, “Changes like this can’t happen overnight, and every step forward is a step worth celebrating. Don’t knock it just because it’s small.” 

Thomas took an involuntary glance at Daisy and found her now looking to Mr. Mason for answers. This was good; get the attention off himself. Get it on Mr. Mason who could provide their company with warm speculation and the jeweled wisdom of being a crotchety old man. 

Thomas itched for a cigarette, but for some reason couldn’t find it within him to smoke inside William Mason’s childhood home. 

“Do you think I should stick at it?” Daisy asked Mr. Mason. 

“I do!” Mr. Mason urged; Thomas heard the faint telltale sign of wood under pressure as Mr. Mason gripped the back of Thomas’ vacant chair just a little tighter than normal. “And now we ought to think about getting you back to the bus.” 

There was a flurry of movement as chairs were pulled back and people rose from their seats. Both Phyllis and Moseley instantly reached to help clear the plates, and Thomas leaned forward from the counter to grab his own but was beat out by Daisy who got their first. She took Phyllis and Moseley’s plates from them as well, making a small pile in her hands of cutlery and dishes. 

“No, no, Daisy and I are your hosts.” Mr. Mason urged, and with a broad hand he showed both Phyllis and Moseley to the front hallway. Thomas made to follow them, an odd sort of relief flooding him to his very bones- but that relief was shot right to hell when Mr. Mason reached out and put an actual hand upon his shoulder. 

It was like a dead weight- something solid and concrete rooting him to the ground- and as Thomas looked to Mr. Mason’s face for an answer he found it in the cold stare that met him. It was the same cold stare that his own father had given him plenty of times in a public setting; one that forswore a private beating was in store. 

Fair enough; Thomas would happily take violence over an actual talk. 

Daisy was moving plates and dish to the sink, mindless of the two men in a silent war beside her. 

Mr. Mason’s eyes drifted over to Daisy, and Thomas followed them. 

He wanted her out of the room. Once again, that was more than fair. Daisy was normal, naive even, and it wouldn’t do for her to see the violent side of her father in law. Thomas’ eyes immediately started drifting around the room towards objects Mr. Mason might use on the offense. But in a kitchen, murder weapons could be found on every surface: forks, knives, iron skillets and broken china? He’d be lucky not to lose blood on this. Of course, the real weapons in hand were actual hands, and Thomas found himself studying Mr. Mason’s hands even as he gestured for Daisy while picking up a tin can tucked into a neat corner of the kitchen counter. 

“Daisy, will you take this out to the chickens?” Mr. Mason offered her a tin full of scraps; bits of vegetable, bread, and mince pie. Daisy took it in hand without question, keen to do whatever Mr. Mason asked. Keen to be of use. Good, let her stay that way… Thomas could take care of the rest. 

In Mr. Mason’s eyes there lurked of something angry; fiercely angry. Protective even… and every time it locked eyes with Thomas, ice began to encroach upon his stomach. He’d seen eyes like that before; he knew what was coming. 

And then something slightly strange happened: Daisy stopped, and stared. 

Maybe Daisy knew something wasn’t right. Maybe she knew Mr. Mason well enough or Thomas well enough to understand that both were acting abnormally. As she took the tin can, she looked first to Mr. Mason, then to Thomas, and in that interchange Thomas saw fear, and a knowing that there was a reason for Thomas coming to Mr. Mason’s farm besides her tutoring. Daisy was smart… naive but smart, and even a relatively foolish person could tell when a fight was about to break out in a room. She seemed to know that when she left the room a conversation would occur; she seemed to gather that her leaving the room was key to the conversation in total. That whatever Mr. Mason had to say he would not say in front of Daisy… and that worried her. She caught Thomas’ eyes, meek brown meeting steely blue; Thomas jerked his chin. Daisy left, but there was a hesitation in her step that Thomas had not expected.

Mr. Mason was small beer compared to his own father.   
Daisy closed the kitchen door behind her as she stepped out into the yard. 

For a moment there was a beat of silence as the two men regarded one another.   
Thomas waited for the blow. 

Mr. Mason folded his weathered hands behind his back, his vest straining slightly over his belly; his gold pocket watch twinkled in the afternoon light. His gaze was disapproving, and even the slightest bit cold. 

Thomas fiddled with the glove on his bad hand, momentarily looking away to glance at the door through which Daisy had departed. He thought he saw the inklings of a shadow on the floor; was she standing just outside? Was she listening? 

Surely not. That wasn’t like Daisy. Thomas glanced back at Mr. Mason and found him waiting with a bitter glare. Thomas swallowed. 

He waited for the fight, for the blow, for the beginning of the combat.   
A minute passed, then two. 

Thomas glanced at Mr. Mason’s hands, still behind his back; was it queer that he was growing slightly… impatient? 

“I suppose you know why I asked her off.” Mr. Mason began, tilting his head as he spoke. 

… Were they about to have a conversation? 

Thomas nodded, opening his mouth to speak but finding no words coming. He didn’t even know where to begin with the man. Dear god, if they were about to have an actual conversation Thomas was officially back on square one and completely out of his element. 

He didn’t know what to say; if there was anything he possibly could say. Even if he said it, it would change nothing. William would still be dead at the end of this conversation. 

“It’s been many years since William passed on.” Mr. Mason pursed his lips, emotional for a moment as he no doubt recalled his son. Thomas set his jaw in a firm lock, refusing to show emotion upon his face, “but I loved my son dearly and I knew every inch of his heart. My father was always good to me, and I tried to be good to my William in turn.” He paused, and looked at Thomas dead in the face. 

Thomas flinched in that penetrating gaze. 

“I loved my son.” Mr. Mason whispered with fierce pride. “Loved him dearly… and I raised him well. He were a kind boy.” 

Silence fell. 

Thomas looked away; he could not bear to continue to stare into Mr. Mason’s eyes. They were too open, too raw, and they cut him to the bone where he was most sensitive. 

He hadn’t been ready to make this apology today; he hadn’t known what he would say when the time came. Now the time was upon him and he was still undecided. God he wished Mr. Mason would just _punch_ him. 

“Yes.” Was all he could manage, hoarse and bland. 

Mr. Mason waited until Thomas dared to look back up; once again he was met with that fierce, proud glare. That glare which spoke volumes of Mr. Mason’s love for William. 

“He told me about you.” Mr. Mason murmured, and it was the first words spoken in truest malice. 

Thomas closed his eyes. That tone was too close to home. Too similar to his own father’s, and it made a backlash of bile rise up in Thomas’ stomach. He couldn't stand being talked to in such a way by older men… Carson, Bates, Lord Grantham… he hated it to the core. It numbed him. That bitter disapproving tone, which said _‘You have disappointed me and so yourself’._

He really didn’t need to be thinking of his father right now. It was doing nothing for his nerves. 

“He told me you abused and bullied him.” Mr. Mason’s tone was turning from malicious to fierce, a heat entering his mouth and Thomas flinched with every other word, “Belittled him. Used Daisy against him… and he couldn’t understand why because he’d always treated you with kindness!” 

Thomas’ throat was dry and constricting. He swallowed several times but nothing would stop the clenching. A heat was spreading across his face… a heat of purest shame. 

He could see William’s face in his minds eye; his horror and disappointment when Thomas had snagged Daisy to the fair right from under his nose. The way John Bates had looked him dead in the face and declared him a bastard. The way John Bates had slammed him into the wall, and warned him to back off. He wondered what Mr. Mason would have done in John Bates’ shoes… probably taken a light fixture and cracked him over the head with it. 

Wouldn’t have been the first time that Thomas would have been hit with a piece of furniture. 

Thomas took a deep, steadying breath; he looked Mr. Mason in the eye again, and found his gaze no less angry but the heat gone from his words. Something new was slipping in, something honest and profoundly singular to this man. A strange clarity when he spoke that refused room for lies. 

“I tried to tell him that you were probably unused to kindness.” Mr. Mason continued on, gesturing at Thomas in the space between them. Every move he made was done with a fruitless air; as if he felt the entire situation was utterly hopeless to begin with. As if he expected nothing from Thomas. As if he couldn’t understand any of it, “ That you didn’t know how to react to it. That he should feel _sorry_ for you and not pay attention to your _schemes_ and _plots_.” Mr. Mason snapped the two words. 

Thomas did not drop his gaze this time; the two men bore holes into one another. 

“But he found that very hard to do when he loved Daisy so much.” Mr. Mason whispered, shaking his head a little. 

A beat of silence stretched and prolonged, pushing past the point of comfort for both men. Mr. Mason was the one to speak again. 

“Why did you do it, Thomas?” He finally asked, “Why did you bully William?” 

Thomas did not need time to think on his answer. It was an obvious one: “There’s no excuse.” 

“I wouldn’t imagine there is.” Mr. Mason agreed, though his tone was hot and short, “and you’ll never be able to apologize now, will you!” 

Thomas flinched, and this time he saw Mr. Mason’s reaction; he suddenly looked slightly reproachful. Thomas hastily looked away… he didn’t know what he despised more from older men. Disappointment or pity. 

Pity. Most definitely pity. 

“Would you apologize if you could?” Mr. Mason asked. 

Once again, Thomas did not need to think about the answer: “Naturally.” 

Mr. Mason seemed quite surprised. Another beat of silence stretched between them, but this one lacked the tension of before. This one just seemed weary and old, filled with Mr. Mason’s age and Thomas’ depression till it broke and fell between them. 

And suddenly it dawned upon Thomas that this man was the closest to William he would ever get besides Daisy. That if he was ever going to apologize to anyone for his behavior to William, it would be this man. 

And so he began. 

“William was everything I could not be.” Thomas said, for it was the truth and lies could not stand in this household. There was simply no room for them, no room for people like Thomas who thrived in them. “And I loathed him for it-“ 

he paused, looking Mr. Mason dead in the face as he carried on. He wanted Mr. Mason to see it in his eyes, to know his sincerity. 

“Make no mistake.” Thomas whispered, “I _loathed_ your son.” 

Mr. Mason drew a breath, moved by the malice that now inhabited Thomas’ words. Thomas wondered if he was the first person to say such a thing to Mr. Mason… if anyone had hated William besides him. Mr. Mason said nothing to his credit, waiting for Thomas to continue. 

“I saw the way he looked at Daisy.” Thomas shook his head, thinking of how at the time he’d been so utterly in love with Phillip; how Phillip had thrown him over with an easy grace as if he’d been nothing more than a whore. It burned him. “He was the better man, of course. Even on my best day, I could only ever be a tenth of what he was, and it ate at me.” 

The entire trade off had eaten at him. William loved Daisy, the whole house adored him for it. Thomas loved Phillip… and got ashes in a fireplace and twenty four bottles of stolen wine for comfort. 

“I could never be happy.” Thomas recalled bitterly, “I could never be liked in that house. I could never understand him. So I fought him. I loathed him. I made him miserable as every inch of miserable as he made me… but he never learned.” Thomas shook his head and looked away. “He just kept… trying.” 

Trying for what, Thomas wondered. 

Mr. Mason listened to his words, and as they drew to a close he folded his arms over his chest. Thomas had expected Mr. Mason to be angry, violently angry at him for those words. To strike him perhaps, or at least shout at him to get out of the house. Instead Mr. Mason looked truly perplexed now, even pitying, and Thomas couldn’t stand it. He wanted rage, not this. He wanted anger… not concern. 

“Was it so difficult to understand kindness-“ 

“Not everyone’s father is kind to them.” Thomas warned, his tone turning malicious once more as he glared at Mr. Mason. As he fumed at this man, this incredibly kind man who had no doubt showered his son with love and adoration. Who had probably tucked his son into bed at night and asked after his school work. Who had surely tended to him when sick and kissed him goodbye when he left for Downton. This kind, kind man… who Thomas would give anything to have for as a father. 

How Thomas wished he could rage at Mr. Mason. What he would have given… to show Mr. Mason just one tiny piece of the agony inside of him where fathers were concerned. 

All the hatred had left Mr. Mason’s face. Now he looked at Thomas frankly, if not with full out concern. 

“And was your father kind to you, Mr. Barrow?” Mr. Mason asked gently. 

Thomas’ glare dulled; this man was sucking the energy out of him. 

“What do you think, Mr. Mason.” Thomas growled with no small show of sarcasm. Mr. Mason pursed his lips and nodded. 

“So it seems I was right.” Mr. Mason said at last. Thomas gave him no reply one way or the other. “But that’s no excuse.” 

“I never said it was.” Thomas warned. “But it is the reason.” 

They were silent for a minute more, each man backing into his own corner. Then, Mr. Mason gave Thomas another look, one that was once again filled with warning; Thomas prepared himself for another beat down about William, but was surprised when the conversation swerved in the direction of Daisy instead. 

“Daisy’s fond of you.” Mr. Mason said. Thomas’ brow furrowed. 

“She’s kind.” He agreed. 

“A little too fond of you.” Mr. Mason continued on, his tone heavy with discontent. “I can’t pretend I approve.” 

Thomas blinked. That was a rather shitty thing for a man to say; he hadn’t honestly expected it to come from Mr. Mason. 

“You disapprove of kindness-?” Thomas could not help but sneer, “Goodness you’re a walking contradiction-“ 

“I disapprove of you being her fancy man.” Mr. Mason snapped, growing just a tad irritated with Thomas. His words stopped Thomas cold. 

Fancy man? Mr. Mason thought he was her _fancy man?_

Thomas’ mouth fell open, accidentally. 

The last time Daisy had had a crush on him, Thomas had used it shamelessly to his own advantage (much to O’Brians’ amusement and everyone else’s irritation). He’d been young and foolish, broken hearted over Phillip and if he were completely honest very hungover from the twenty-four bottles of nicked wine.

Now he was older, wiser, five years off the drink, and… well…   
Certainly not broken hearted over _Phillip._

And suddenly what had seemed so amusing to him in his youth was no longer amusing at all. It was… _worrying._

“You do realize she’s taken a fancy to you-?”   
“I doubt that-“   
“You’re a fool then.” 

Thomas glared at Mr. Mason, who gave him a thoroughly disapproving look back as Thomas began to methodically rub his jaw. Already his brain was whirring, gears clicking back into action from disuse. The first question of: _How do I get out of this_ , trailing off into something deep and muddled that Thomas couldn’t quite put a finger on. Something that urged him to look deeper, to push the envelope just a little further- but he was tired. So very tired. and Mr. Mason was still glaring at him. 

“You hurt my William.” Mr. Mason said, and Thomas bristled at the frankness in his voice. The fact that he would never be able to un-hurt William, or explain to William why he’d hurt him in the first place. “Please don’t hurt my Daisy.” 

Thomas had officially grown tired of this conversation. He was ready to go ‘home’. If he could even call the Abbey home. 

“I wouldn’t hurt Daisy whether she was yours or not.” Thomas growled, his tone a clear warning that this conversation should not continue. 

Mr. Mason opened his mouth, his eyes ablaze as if ready to hurl a fresh insult at Thomas, but before the hammer could fall the back door opened and Daisy stepped back inside. Her tin devoid of scraps, she set the bucket aside on the kitchen counter and approached the two men with clear trepidation. 

“I fed the chickens.” She said. 

Mr. Mason slowly folded his hands behind his back. Whatever he had been about to say would remain a mystery to Thomas. 

But that was fine to him. Mystery was akin to ignorance. The less he knew the better. He’d learned far too much for one evening as it stood, anyway. 

“We ought to return home.” Daisy looked to Thomas now, and as her eyes searched his face for answers to the argument she knew nothing of Thomas felt burned. He turned, and without a farewell to Mr. Mason made his way to the front door. 

He didn’t want to be in this house any fucking longer. It was a graveyard for people like him. He’d only crumble if he stayed here. 

He was out the front door before Daisy could catch up, making his way towards Phyllis and Moseley who were making their way slowly towards the wagonette. His sutures were screaming, his head was numb, and the only thing Thomas could register was the pounding of his heart. 

Phyllis.   
Phyllis who had already bitten so many bullets for Thomas, endured so much of his abuse. How was she different from William? How was she _any_ different from William? 

The truth was that Phyllis was identical to William: she was trusting and good, raised in a loving family and naive in regards to dangerous men. She was Thomas’ victim; had endured his senseless cruelty for the sake of his own personal safety net. The only difference between the two of them was that Phyllis was alive and William was dead. 

That was more than enough.   
He ran to catch up with Phyllis, ignoring the sharp throbbing agony in his hip as his sutures stung and bled. 

“You misunderstood me earlier.” Thomas said as he reached her, and Phyllis looked at him expectantly as Thomas continued along. He could not look at Phyllis as he spoke, but he knew that she’d understand his words were for her, “Tell him why you had to talk to the police, the real reason. It has nothing to do with you. Tell him it was my fault.” 

Out of his peripheral vision he saw Phyllis shake her head emphatically, “No.” 

“Do it.” Thomas spat, his self hatred reaching new levels as he thought of the skull cracking he’d receive when Bates found out he’d been the one to push the investigation further, “Bates and I already don’t like one another-‘ 

“You weren’t thinking straight-“ 

“When have I ever thought straight-“ Thomas sneered; Phyllis did not rise to the bait. 

“You were sick.” Baxter said in a tone that suggested the matter was closed for discussion, “You were sick, and confused, and fevered, and I won’t-“ 

“That’s no excuse.” Thomas said, and it suddenly felt like the conversation with Mr. Mason all over again, save this time Phyllis was the one making excuses and Thomas was the one shooting them down, “It’s my fault. Tell him it’s my fault.” 

“No!” 

Phyllis did not speak in a hard tone, save for very rare instances when even her catholic-saint-patience ran plum dry. It seemed such a moment had arisen, for the glare she fixed Thomas with now was thunderous. Moseley looked quite shocked to have heard such a tone come from Phyllis’ usually sweet mouth, but if he was planning on courting her (as Thomas suspected he was) then he was in for a damn huge shock where she was concerned.

“I will not lie to pad my own bed.” Phyllis snapped; they paused before the horse and buggy, waiting for Daisy and Mr. Mason to catch up. 

Thomas gritted his teeth, wishing he could have a full out row with her right here right now. With Daisy approaching, it was impossible. He didn't want her to see him shouting at Phyllis; he’d already fucked up her day enough as far as he was concerned. 

“It’s not a lie and you know it-“ Thomas spat under his breath, ever aware of Daisy and Mr. Mason encroaching. 

“It’s not the truth either.” Phyllis spat back in that same soft voice. They stared at another, a good thirty years relations between them, obvious for all the world to see. They were not strangers to one another’s hearts. Their weaknesses, their trials, so well known to one another that it was like a second glove for the other hand. Thomas knew there was a freckle behind Phyllis’ left ear that one could only see if she pulled her hair back. Phyllis knew that Thomas was a masochist and desperately seeking punishment if only to find some salvation in it. 

“… Come on.” She murmured softly, and she reached out to take his arm around her own, “Let’s go home.”


	5. A New Shade of Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Daisy could have sworn in that moment that all the light fled from Thomas, as if the fear had chased it away to a remote corner of the universe where it was swallowed up forever. Her heart was pounding wildly now; she couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Had she read the signs wrong? Had she assumed he’d liked her back when he hadn’t? Thomas seemed close to leap away from her and running out of the courtyard, anything to put distance between them and Daisy began to creep backward in a horrible cloud of shame and regret. Thomas did not relax, his body still a tightly coiled spring of panic as he kept staring out across the courtyard."

The dinner (shockingly enough) was a goddamn catastrophe. 

Really, Thomas felt bad for Mrs. Crawley. It was completely unfair for her to have to contend with Larry Gray and the Dowager Countess in the same evening. It was like declaring war on Russia and China at the same time. Thomas had felt like he was watching a clever boxing match by the end of it, save that instead of attractive men it was a pair of related toffs and a highly irritated (and unfortunately sober) ex-chauffeur. Thomas would never have admitted it publicly, but when Branson had declared Larry Gray a bastard Thomas had felt a mighty sense of achievement. _Finally_ someone said what they were all thinking. It was just a pity it couldn’t have been Thomas himself. 

The dinner had ended on a painfully sour note, with the men _sans Larry Gray_ retiring to the library to sulk and soak up brandy like loaves of dry bread while the ladies hid in the sitting room and attempted to console Mrs. Crawley. By the time everyone had called for bed and the dining room was laid out for Thomas to tidy it was close to nine and his feet were killing him. 

His consolation and personal entertainment came from overhearing Atticus Aldrige propose to Lady Rose in the side hallway just outside the dining room, but he found it hard to soak up the news while Mr. Mason’s words were still bouncing around in his skull. 

The conversation at Fox Hill Farm had rung in Thomas’ ears all through dinner, assaulting him at the worst of times (such as when he’d directed the flow of plates or refilled Lord Grantham’s wine for the third time). He’d controlled his facial expression, keeping the servant’s blank, but inside his mind where none could touch nor control him Thomas had thought endlessly on William Mason and his father. They were two of a kind, Thomas could see. Like father, like son, or so the old saying went. 

Suddenly Thomas thought of his own father, his hands pausing upon organizing the crystal for Moseley to take down when he returned as he recalled his father’s scowling nature and his sheer impatience for the entire human race. 

Like father, like son.   
Thomas could not help but shudder. 

The sound of thundering foot falls brought Thomas back to himself as Carson entered the vacant dining hall with Moseley right behind him. Moseley was clearly giggling, or at least attempting to suppress it, while Mr. Carson looked close to murder as was his common expression whenever joy or mirth could be found around him. Mercifully for Thomas, joy and mirth had fled from his own life when Jimmy walked out the door so he was in no danger of being yelled at. 

“If you will control yourself, Mr. Moseley.” Carson snarled, yanking the inventory a little too forcibly from Thomas’ hands for his liking. He said nothing, merely glowering at Carson as he began to stack crystal upon a tray for Moseley to take. Moseley kept trying to re arrange his face, to hold his mirth in, but it was practically impossible. 

“Sorry, Mr. Carson.” Moseley coughed, attempting once more to compose himself as Mr. Carson left the dining hall again in a huff, but not before handing Thomas over the measuring stick and silently waving for him to get busy straightening the chairs. Without a word, Carson left, and Thomas abandoned his work with the crystal to begin his rounds about the table. 

For a moment there was only silence as Thomas straightened and Moseley stacked.   
A sudden cough caught Thomas’ attention; he refrained from looking up.   
Another cough. Thomas still kept his head down. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Moseley spoke up, his tone filled with clear tension. Moseley had this queer way of being polite even when he wasn’t trying to be. Maybe it was a product of his raising or simply part of his innate nature, but it was really starting to piss Thomas off. 

Thomas paused mid-arrangement, his hands drumming irritably along the back of Lord Grantham’s vacant chair. 

“What is it, Mr. Moseley.” Thomas resumed straightening, eager to get his job over and done with so that he could go downstairs and have his supper. The sooner it was all said and done, the sooner he could fall into bed and try to forget Mr. Mason’s declaration that he was Daisy’s ‘fancy man’. 

“About what you said earlier today, at Mr. Mason’s farm…” Moseley paused as Thomas straightened up to look him full in the face. Thomas knew that his expression was stoney, but he cared nothing for Moseley’s comfort. Moseley looked slightly unsure for a moment, as if debating whether having this entire conversation were really important enough to endure Thomas’ acerbic nature, but apparently it was for he carried on to say, “You know that Ms. Baxter won’t tell Mr. Bates the truth… so maybe you should.” 

He looked pointedly at Thomas, his disdain clear. 

Thomas had to admit to himself that Moseley did have a point. Phyllis folded under pressure with the speed and assurance of a lawn chair, and Thomas knew that Bates would slam his face into the wall once he found out the truth anyways. Why not save Bates the trip of limping all throughout the house and tell Bates himself? What was there truly stopping him? 

Thomas slowly marked chair after chair as he made his way around the dining room table, his thoughts turning towards that dark chapter in his history when all the lights had gone out. John Bates had saved him then, though he certainly hadn’t wanted Thomas to stay on as under butler. 

Shame began to lick at his insides, causing him to pause mid-push to a chair. 

“It would do you a good mark on your character if you started telling the truth.” Moseley grumbled, his arms loaded with crystal to be replaced downstairs. 

Thomas fiddled with the back of the chair, his fingers drumming nervously along the clothed edge to feel every button and pin. 

“And since when have you ever cared about my character, Mr. Moseley.” Thomas resumed sliding the chairs in with greatest care, trying to look aloof when in reality he was waiting to hear what Moseley would say. Moseley was a champion of the underdogs, queerly enough, constantly eager to help those in need-

“I don’t.” Moseley assured him with such a cold finality that it actually gave Thomas pause, “But if you do, you’ll tell the truth.” 

Thomas looked up from the table, his eyes locking onto Moseley’s withering face, and the glare he gave him then contained all the words he could never speak. All the raging and the cursing at his situation and Moseley’s part in it. 

Moseley seemed slightly disturbed; he backed away, arms loaded with crystal, and disappeared once more through the dining hall doors. 

 

Supper downstairs was a combination of left overs from upstairs and hot soup. Though all the others were eager to chatter about the wild activity upstairs Thomas kept relatively silent through his meal save to answer Phyllis’ occasional question or to reply to Mrs. Hughes. It was just as well, his input wasn’t really needed in these meager conversations. His thoughts were still full of the letter he’d sent to the police, and how Bates had so valiantly defended his cause when none had required it of him. 

Thomas glanced across the table; Bates and Anna were smiling at one another, knee deep in some conversation about Larry Gray and how he was a bastard. Thomas could not help but notice the lingering touches, the way that Anna’s eyes sparkled when she gazed too deeply into John’s face. 

The envy began to swirl and pulse inside of him, soaking into every crevice of his soul until he could not help the scowling expression upon his face and had to duck his head lest Anna or Bates see. 

When the plates had been cleared and the servant’s given the all-out call for the night, Thomas remained at the table to start working on an inventory list for Lady Rose’s impending wedding using an old inventory list for Lady Mary’s wedding as a precursor. Certain things would be uncalled for, given the difference in title and location (Thomas had a feeling this wedding would be held in a court office instead of a church), but the after party would no doubt be massive. Lady Rose was not one to go out cheap. 

“What are you doing?” Phyllis asked, quite curious as to the paper spread upon the servant’s dining table. Thomas glanced up to find her sporting two cups of tea, one of which she offered to Thomas. She’d even put in lemon and honey, just as he might if he’d fetched it himself. He accepted it gratefully, taking a slow sip as she sat down beside him at the table. 

“Well we’re about to have a whole lot more work and I though I’d get the jump on it.” Thomas shrugged, wondering how many items he could get through before the clock hit midnight. He still had about an hour, give or take. 

“A lot more work how?” Phyllis fetched a bit of lace, something that no doubt needed mending, and as she retook her seat she began to sew in a slow methodical pace that was quite soothing to watch. Her sewing machine was fun to observe, but Thomas enjoyed watching her sew by hand even more. In a way it reminded him of his mother, and how she’d mended all his broken buttons. 

_“Thomas, really.” he could hear her saying, “How many buttons have you gone through since last month? Seven?”_

But she never boded him ill for his wild adventures, and she kept every button he broke like it was a golden coin for her penny box. 

“Well Lady Rose accepting Atticus Aldridge’s hand in marriage isn’t going-“ 

“She what?!” 

Thomas jerked his head up, quite shocked at the semi loud declaration of Anna having overheard his conversation with Phyllis. Thomas had been under the impression that Moseley had told them all, that this was slightly stale news, but it seemed that Moseley hadn’t been aware of the impending wedding and the rest of the downstairs staff was likewise in the dark. 

“You kept that quiet.” Phyllis remarked with a pointed smile. 

“I thought you already knew.” Thomas admitted- slightly sheepish now that a great deal of people were looking at him. 

“We’ve all been downstairs-“ Anna remarked. 

“I thought Moseley told you about it.” Thomas jerked his head to Moseley who was hanging around the head of the dining table with a cup of tea looking quite disturbed. 

“I didn’t know!” Moseley assured the rest of the hall as eyes suddenly drifted to him, “How did you know?” 

Now the eyes were back on Thomas, and he flushed. 

“I keep an eye out.” Thomas grumbled. Yet before anyone could comment on that slightly disturbing concept, Carson re entered the hall and everyone had to jerk out of their chairs lest they be clipped round the ears for disrespect. Thomas’ sutures screamed in sudden agony from the unexpected movement, and Thomas momentarily teetered into Phyllis who had to throw out an arm to right him lest he crash into the table. Mercifully Thomas was a shadow in the background when it came to servant life, and no one noticed his blunder as Carson’s booming voice carried out around the hall. 

“I’ve just received news from his Lordship, Lady Rose has accepted Sir Atticus Aldridge’s hand in marriage-“ a nervous tittering broke out around the table as people looked from Thomas to Carson. “We’ll have much to do come morning but I though tonight we could celebrate.” And with that Carson made a show of the wine cellar key before heading off into the pantry. 

Suddenly it was a flurry of glasses and the putting away of tea as everyone cleared the servant’s hall table for Carson’s return. When he came back, he did so with wine, and everyone accepted a glass save for Thomas who respectfully declined to keep his cup of tea instead. Carson would have no way of knowing that Thomas hadn’t touched a drink since his disaster with Phillip… shocking to think that was almost seven years ago. 

“Don’t you like Lady Rose?” Phyllis asked, noticing Thomas had declined a glass of wine as she took a sip of her own. 

“I don’t mind her.” Thomas assured Phyllis, “But I don’t drink.” and with that he resumed his work. 

“Probably for the best…” Phyllis mused, licking her lips to clear them of their newly reddened tint, “Given him.” 

Thomas caught her eye, and the pair of them shared a knowing look as they both recalled his father’s drinking binges. Yes, once again Phyllis had a keen eye for the truth within him. She’d yet to know that he’d once nicked twenty four bottles of wine on a drinking binge all his own, but he doubted she’d be surprised if someone ever told her. 

 

Moseley was still nattering away, now entranced in conversation with both Anna and Bates at the same time. 

“It’s exciting!” Moseley declared as he sipped on his wine; Thomas cast him a wary eye, having heard far too much about a certain Gilley’s ball involving Moseley and a spritely jig. “All this talk of love and marriage- makes you really think about your own life.” 

Thomas looked down at the wedding inventory.   
Yes… he supposed talk of weddings could bring up all sorts of thoughts. Unfortunately for him, none of his were logical. It wasn’t like he could ever get married. 

“Have you ever thought of getting married, Ms. Baxter?” Moseley asked, and though he attempted to do so in a flippant and nonchalant air he was opaque as glass. Thomas scowled, thinking once more of David Baxter and how he might fair to know that his dear little sister was being oggled over by a moron like Moseley. 

Phyllis, to her credit, did not tease him as she sipped thoughtfully upon her wine. 

“I have, yes.” Phyllis paused, “But it wasn’t meant to be.” 

Ah, yes. Peter Coyle. Salt of the earth; a sweeter soul never to be found. Thomas wondered if hell had a special corner reserved for people like Peter Coyle, who abused and belittled simply for the thrill of power. He then realized with an ugly jolt that there were those who would put him in the very same corner if one existed. Phyllis caught his gaze and held it, her brow twitching as she noted the mild concern in her expression. 

“Don’t you start.” She tried for a tease. Thomas smiled acerbically. 

“No. I won’t.” Thomas assured her. Her smile warmed significantly as she silently toasted him with her wine glass. Thomas rolled his eyes and resumed his work on the inventory. 

“So it seems we’ll have another wedding to plan and endure.” Bates grumbled, his wine already half drunk. He sounded none too thrilled at the prospect, though Thomas could hardly blame him. For the upstairs, weddings were moments of delight and joy. For the downstairs, weddings were panicky, hysterical events like riding a psychotic horse through a burning stable. Anything that could go wrong, would go wrong, and usually in the worst way possible. 

“You make it sound like a torture Mr. Bates.” Anna’s voice was laced with humor. 

“Maybe it is.” Bates teased back, a grin slowly forming upon his lips, “I rather liked my own… short and sweet.” He paused to tap his thick fingers atop Anna’s slim tapered ones, “But these affairs can just drag on and on.” 

_Ah yes_ , Thomas thought acidly, _Talk about your wedding. Talk about your delightful marriage. Gloat about your cottage. Rub it all in. I’ll just steal your strawberries later._

“Would you want a large wedding or a small one, Ms. Baxter?” Moseley asked. Thomas could not hold in the sneer that slipped past his lips. 

“You better book the venue now.” Thomas muttered dryly, his gaze never rising from the inventory list. 

_What venue would Jimmy like?_ , his mind dared to wonder. Phyllis smacked his arm slightly in recompense for his teasing; Thomas barely noticed, too enthralled by the sudden thought of what venue he might pick if he married Jimmy. 

The woods, Thomas decided to himself. He’d get married in the woods. Deep past the hedges and the line of trees, where brambles and thorns entangled the feet of any vile trespasser that might dare to harm them. They’d get married deep in the woods, where no one could see them or stop them. 

“I’d prefer a small wedding.” Phyllis replied, “How about yourself, Mr. Moseley?” 

“Oh the same.” He was still attempting to sound nonchalant; he was fooling no one, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a big wedding-“ 

Thomas and Jimmy would probably be able to beat Phyllis and Moseley out; their own wedding would have zero guests. Save for of course the fairies that would attend (for if Thomas was indulging himself in this particular fantasy he might as well go all the way). 

“Well at least it’ll be manageable.” Thomas sneered again, the corners of his mouth twitching up as Phyllis let out the tiniest huff of irritation, “You should pick out your colors now- butterscotch and tope-“ 

As for he and Jimmy, their wedding colors would have to be decided upon with care… perhaps black and white. Something fashionable yet modern- 

Phyllis smacked his arm harder. Thomas could not help the snort of laughter that escaped him. 

“I think it very sensible to have a small wedding, Thomas.” Phyllis’ voice had a decidedly hard edge but it was likewise filled with good humor. Thomas’ grin only grew larger. 

“I agree.” Bates spoke up. 

“As do I.” Anna chorused. 

Thomas could imagine them all at his wedding (once again enjoying his fantastical indulgence). Phyllis and Anna would wear faded dresses and boots to combat the mud and tangles of the deep woods. Bates would sit on a stump to ease the tensions of his leg and Moseley would demand to know where the after party was being held. 

They’d have a bonfire, tall and hot, and would dance around it drinking till dawn. They might even try to jump through it. 

Suddenly Thomas was assaulted with the hysterical image of Bates attempting to jump through the pyre only to nearly trip in it for his bad leg. A bubble of laughter escaped his throat despite how he attempted to clamp down on it. 

But he was too late, and Moseley was suddenly off and running. 

“Why do you laugh?” He demanded, sounding personally affronted. Thomas glanced up from his inventory to find Moseley glaring. The feeling of icy cold water suddenly dripped from Thomas’ neck down his back as he realized the farcical delusion of his fantasy. 

There would never be a wedding. None of these people would ever care to go to a wedding of his even if he (by the grace of god) managed to pull one off. Moseley wouldn’t be happy to be there, nor would he demand to dance a jig at the after party. The only fires involved would be the fires people set. 

“Do you find love to be funny, Mr. Barrow?” Moseley demanded. “Do you find weddings to be beneath you?” 

Thomas sat back a little in his chair, his pale blue eyes narrowing maliciously as he felt Phyllis stiffen beside him. The sutures in his hip throbbed momentarily as Thomas changed his position in his chair.

Did he find love to be funny? Certainly not. 

To men like him, love was a dance with death, a certain and confirmed torture in action as the world slowly compressed the joy from every affair. Thomas had been able to deny his romantic nature even as a teenager, when he’d become obsessed with getting his hands on any books that spoke on homosexuality. When he’d discovered that certain authors refrained from publishing their manuscripts but could be bought off for a sandwich and ale at the pub, Thomas had had his world opened to him. Suddenly the likes of _Maurice_ and _The Well of Loneliness_ consumed him. When he’d had his own taste of love, Thomas had been in for a depressing shock as Phillip showed him that not every relationship could be as fragrant or upbeat as Alec and Maurice’s had been… and by the time Edward had come along Thomas had almost given up on the notion of happiness. 

But then Jimmy had appeared, and Thomas had been born again. How could he find love to be funny when he loved Jimmy so dearly? No… that love had never been born for humor. It had been a kindred connection, an act of two spirits merging. An alternative love story that could rival Anna and Bates… Thomas was certain. They’d had no marriage, nor enjoyed no cottage… but in the months after Alfred’s and Ivy’s departure, their relationship had bloomed and delved in deeper. Thomas was certain they’d had a connection of some type. Was certain that Jimmy had felt it too. 

And as for finding weddings to be beneath him… well… if Thomas was ever lucky enough to find himself standing before a man who’d ask him to marry, he’d be so floored a rug could be laid flat upon him. 

No. Thomas had never found weddings to be beneath him. Merely unattainable. 

And suddenly an image swam to mind of Jimmy in his coat tails, clasping hands with him in the middle of a deep lush wood; the skies painted over in sunset and dusk draping the scene in a gloomy cloak. Jimmy’s golden hair would look almost like fire where the sun touched it between the dappled leaves. His deep blue eyes would turn the loveliest purple, a color Thomas would never forget- 

“Because you’d think differently if you had cause for either.” Moseley snapped. 

Thomas had had enough. 

He rose up from his seat, eager to put as much distance between himself and the rest of the downstairs staff as possible. He thought he felt the faintest tugging upon his sleeve, as if Phyllis had made to reach for his arm but failed. Thomas did not spare her a backward glance, bound for the door to the outer hall 

 

In his minds eye he could still see Jimmy in that wooded clearing; could still feel himself swimming in that new shade of purple as Jimmy’s hair glowed aflame. 

 

~*~

She’d been watching him all night, all day really.   
Ever since she’d hidden behind the back door step and listened to him speak to Mr. Mason. 

The entire thing had made her feel numb; weak kneed- hearing Thomas speak so openly, so _darkly_ , as if he was spilling his entire soul for Mr. Mason to see. When Mr. Mason had revealed Daisy affections to Thomas, Daisy had been unable to bear it for another minute. Had even been frightened of what Thomas might say. It seemed so far that Thomas simply didn’t believe Mr. Mason. He wasn’t angry, just… confused. 

Daisy could understand that. 

_“I wouldn’t hurt Daisy whether she was yours or not.”_   
Her heart had practically burned for the fury of her affection in that moment. 

So when she’d heard Mr. Moseley and Thomas arguing over love and marriage, her heart had once again begun to burn until she couldn’t stand it. Until she wanted to declare that Mr. Moseley was wrong, that Thomas didn’t find love funny. 

When Thomas had left the hall, Daisy had pursued him, leaving her wine glass abandoned upon the table (to be drunk by some hall boy no doubt). 

The courtyard was wet with freshly fallen rain, and if the rumble overhead was anything to go by the sky wasn’t done yet. Daisy felt incredibly intrusive as she opened the back door and stepped outside; Thomas was leaning against the picnic table where he so often wound clocks in the daytime. He fiddled with a cigarette, playing with his silver lighter so that it flashed in and out of the meagre moonlight that managed to make it through the heavy cloud cover. 

There was something incredibly handsome about him that she’d never been able to deny, even when she’d considered him akin to an ‘evil spell’. She’d never found his attractiveness in his actual looks (though obviously he was very good looking); his attraction came in his charm. In the agility of his hands, or the way that he cut a conversation down the bone with two comments to spare. In how he could level a man without ever saying a word, in how he commanded the air about him to bend to his will. In how he took no excuses, no exceptions, and made no apologies. He was himself, without hope or prayer… and everyone else downstairs knew to stay well out of his way or suffer the consequences. 

Meanwhile Daisy was a doormat. 

She wondered what it felt like to have that kind of power on command. To know how to wield your words like a sword… to cut down every enemy that came your way before they could hurt you. 

She wondered if he’d let her find out. If he had a sword for her or if he’d let her in.   
She supposed there was only one way to find out. 

“Why did you come out here?” Daisy asked, closing the back door behind her so that no one else could eavesdrop on their conversation. Thomas didn’t even look on his shoulder; he just kept right on smoking and looking up at the sky. The stars were hidden tonight. 

“I could ask the same of you.” Thomas parried, “Aren’t you enjoying the celebration?” 

“I was till you left.” She supposed there was no point in lying anymore. 

She came around the table, now standing only a few feet from him at the end of the bench. She felt a strange warmth expand in her belly as Thomas broke into the tiniest smile, tilting his head ever so slightly in her direction. 

“You should go back in.” Thomas exhaled a long stream of smoke that twirled and curled in the air… a live ribbon- a snake and he the charmer, “You’ll be missed.” 

“I’d rather be out here with you.” Daisy murmured.   
Thomas looked her full on, now, his calm expression bending ever so slightly to confusion. 

“It gets to be too much.” She added, and Thomas’ face relaxed. He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes fluttering closed as he expelled another cloud of smoke. 

“I quite agree.” 

Daisy’s heart skipped a beat; she suddenly found herself speaking without registering what she was saying. The words simply flying from her mouth before any sense could be made of them: “Can I have one?” 

“What?” Thomas asked, confused. 

“Can I have a cigarette?” Daisy asked, gesturing to him smoking. 

Thomas snorted, breaking into a sharp quick laugh that had butterflies cocooning against the lining of her stomach from the flutter it caused; he tilted to his head to her again, looking first to his half-smoked cigarette and then to her. 

“Mrs. Patmore will have my ass if I let you smoke.” Thomas warned. 

“Are you afraid of her?” Daisy asked. 

“Aren’t you?” He parried; just like that, a dance with the devil… a sword between his teeth. 

“Not really.” Daisy grinned; Thomas just rolled his eyes. 

“More fool you.” He said but he reached for the pocket of his tails all the same. He withdrew a cigarette, rising up from the bench to extend it out to her along with his lighter. 

She took them both, staring at them for a moment before putting the cigarette between her teeth and cautiously flicking the lighter. She tried to remember how her father had done it (tried to remember her father at all), tried to think of all the men in the work houses who’d depended upon cigarettes like they were life lines. Yet as she made to inhale she was suddenly seized upon with a violent coughing fit at the acrid taste. She nearly dropped the cigarette as she clutched at her throat with her free hand, her cheeks going bright pink as she tried to gain adequate breath. 

“Th-this is awful!” Daisy spluttered; Thomas burst out laughing. He even slapped his knee, truly tickled by her predicament as she shot him a withering glare. “Why do you smoke anyway?” She demanded, looking from the offensive cigarette to Thomas. Thomas’ smile dropped, his mood returning to the calm neutral he so often held in public. 

“Why did you come out here?” He parried. 

Daisy flushed, unsure of how he’d take it if she told him the truth. Instead she looked at the empty spot beside him on the work bench, and gestured to it. 

“Can I sit with you?” She asked. 

A beat of hesitant silence passed as Thomas looked from her to the bench. He seemed truly wary of letting anyone into such a private moment, and Daisy couldn’t blame what with all the grief he received on the daily. Sometimes her private moments in the pantry were life savers; she supposed Thomas felt the same about his smoke breaks. But her heart leapt in her breast when Thomas nodded at long last. 

“If you like.” He said airily. She sat beside him, slow to move and graceful as she perched, looking at her cigarette and crinkling her nose. 

She tried to smoke it again, but gave into another hacking coughing fit. She rolled her eyes as Thomas held back another snicker. 

“Oh go on then.” She muttered, handing him her cigarette. He took it, and she was shocked when he drug on both at once. 

Addiction be damned; Thomas had an oral fixation on those cigarettes, make no mistake. 

There was something incredibly emotional about sitting beside him. Daisy could feel the warmth of his body through her skirts, could smell a scent as singular to him as the very skin he walked around him. It was a mixture of smoke, sweat, mint, and Brilliantine… a masculine aroma that permeated the air around him making it hard for Daisy to breath. It was the knowledge that he was so close, the fact that she could have leaned into his shoulder at that very moment and put her head on his chest. 

Her cheeks flushed again the very thought; she wondered if Thomas could sense her blushing, for he looked away from her and out across the court yard instead. Daisy fiddled with his lighter in her lap, running the smooth metal through her blistered fingers with tender care. There was an odd dent in the bottom left corner as if it had been struck with heated metal. 

She chewed her lip. 

There was one final reservation in her feelings for Thomas, one barrier that had yet to be crossed. Despite his charisma and charm, Thomas was a notorious liar. He could spin tales like spiders could webs, and Daisy had become entangled in his traps plenty of times during her first year at Downton. For a while she’d resented him for it, and when he’d returned home from war she’d been rather unchanged in his attitude. 

But then he’d changed, particularly when Jimmy and Alfred had walked into the picture. He seemed to develop a kinship with the pair of them that he’d never had with William (though at first Alfred and Thomas had fought like cats and dogs). Jimmy had seemed to balance it all out, and after the frightful turn at the Thirsk fair (which Daisy still didn’t fully understand), the three of them had become quite friendly with each other. When Alfred had departed for London, Thomas had simply grown closer to Jimmy, and before Jimmy had likewise left Thomas had been a completely changed man. Acerbic and misanthropic, naturally, but also incredibly gentle and kind to Jimmy. Had Daisy not seen it for herself, she wouldn’t have believed it. 

But it had shown her a side of Thomas that she’d thought incapable of existing. An incredibly soft, and gentile side that refused to take offense or take the easy way out. 

Truth of the matter was that Daisy had listened from the other side of the backdoor, enraptured by the entire conversation between Mr. Mason and Thomas… but she had a feeling the whole affair had worn Thomas to the bone. Given a chance, it might be possible that he’d lie about it just to hide his shame on the subject of William. True, Thomas had confessed to his pain last week when Daisy had brought up that tray, but Thomas had seemed a little…off… that night. 

To be fair he still seemed off. She wondered if he was fevered from his illness. Really he ought to see a doctor if this persisted. 

The question remained though, would Thomas lie if asked a sensitive question. Daisy could not love a liar, even a liar as charismatic and charming as Thomas.

She had to know. 

“… What did you and Mr. Mason talk about?” Daisy asked, swallowing as her mouth suddenly became incredibly dry, “When I went to take scraps out to the chickens?” 

Thomas did not answer straight away, taking his time as he fiddled with his two cigarettes. He blew out a particularly long cloud of smoke that engulfed them both in a whirlpool of mint and Brilliantine so that Daisy’s head began to spin as her eyes fluttered closed. 

“… William.” 

She felt a shallow breath escape through her lips. 

“We talked about William. And how I bullied him.” 

And with a particularly bitter jerk of the wrist Thomas flicked both finished cigarettes out into the dark night where they scattered upon the cobblestone in a flurry of red sparks that soon went out in the wet and cold. 

Daisy glanced at his face, and found him to be quite frightening in that moment. His stony fury was undeniable, his eyes darkening by the second. 

Daisy looked down at her lap instead, her nervous fingers skittering over Thomas’ lighter like it might bite her if she held it still for too long. 

“I thought you might have.” Daisy’s throat was too dry; she coughed twice to clear it, “What did he say?” 

Another chance to lie; another chance to deny the shame. 

“He couldn’t understand it.” Thomas sneered at this, “Naturally. And he wanted me to explain why I’d done such a thing. But what explanation could I really offer.” He jerked another cigarette out of his pack, perching it between his lips and looking to Daisy’s lap. “No excuse.” 

Daisy took the lighter in both hands and with what she considered an enormous feat of bravery lit Thomas’ cigarette. He drew in an expert breath, expelling a cloud of smoke but not making to take back the lighter as Daisy’s trembling fingers reveled at the momentary warmth they held when encasing the tiny flame. 

Silence fell again. 

Thomas had now been given two chances to lie, and had declined the opportunity both times. To say that Daisy was amazed was an understatement. She was floored. And suddenly a world of possibilities, of questions, opened up to her as she realized she could now ask Thomas something sensitive without having to fear being told a lie. She turned her knees ever so slightly in Thomas’ direction, her body now positioned towards him as he leaned against the work table on a heavy arm and used the other hand to flick the ash of his cigarette away from the both. 

“Do you regret it?” Daisy asked, soft. 

“Every day.” 

There was no hesitation in his answer. No room for a lie.   
An incredible warmth filled Daisy’s chest, spreading all the way down her arms and torso right to the tips of her toes till she felt she was positively humming. She realized with a terrible ache that if only others in the house could see this side of Thomas they would never doubt his intentions again. If only they could witness the barrier, the lies, dropping. It would change everything for Thomas; he’d certainly live in a more understanding world. 

If only he trusted the others enough.   
Suddenly Daisy felt incredibly fortunate, privileged, to know this side of Thomas.   
Indeed, she was a bit possessive of it. 

“… Have you ever been in love?” She asked. 

Thomas coughed a little around a mouth full of smoke, raising an eyebrow at Daisy as a long trail of smoke jetted from his nostrils. 

“Where’d that come from?” He asked, though there was a gentle amusement in his voice. 

“All that talk about love and marriage in the servant’s hall made me realize that I’d never asked you before. That no one had ever asked you before.” Daisy admitted, though this was only a partial truth. The full matter came that Daisy was afraid Thomas was already sweet on someone else. It would be better to know now if he was, before her feelings could grow any deeper. 

After Alfred, she could take no chances. 

“Everyone knew I was in love with Alfred and Ivy was keen for Jimmy, but no one ever asked you.” Daisy continued on, her tongue beginning to thicken as she said Alfred’s name, “I guess I just wondered if you’d ever been in love.” 

Thomas did not look happy. 

She watched his body language, worried as she saw him tense. His lips pursed, his pale blue eyes clouding over as he looked up at the star-less sky and contemplated his answer. In a way he was wretched in his silence, a million words of grief remaining locked beneath the surface though Daisy could sense them laying there. Could feel the weight they put upon Thomas’ soul. 

_“He’s a troubled soul, Daisy.”_ Mrs. Patmore had once said in her youth.   
Daisy could understand what she meant now. Thomas truly looked… troubled. 

“Yes.” He finally answered. “Yes I have.” 

Daisy noted the past tense with a slight sense of hope. 

“… What happened?” She asked, her hands beginning to dance over the lighter again. 

Thomas’ mood did not improve as he glared sullenly up at the blackened sky. Far off in the distance, a soft peal of thunder echoed across the Yorkshire valley. 

“They didn’t love me back.” Thomas’ tone was incredibly bitter now, like every word was causing him undue amounts of pain, “And I didn’t find out until it was too late.” 

She winced in spite of herself; she knew exactly how Thomas felt. To fall in love and not realize until you were in over your head that it was unrequited. What a horrific spot to be in. She imagined what the girl might have looked like… would she have been dark and lovely with hair the same shade as Thomas’ and fierce eyes? Or would she have been a soft, doe-eyed thing with brown hair and gentle hands? Daisy could even see Thomas falling in love with a spritely blonde, someone who might have enjoyed wild card games like Edna or had a quip or two up her sleeve like Anna. 

“That’s so sad.” Daisy murmured, for she realized she’d been silent far too long given the tentative subject matter, “You’re wonderful, you deserve love.” 

Thomas snorted, refusing to look at Daisy now as he craned his neck back and stared up at the sky. “Why do you think that? Isn’t it obvious I’m a bastard?” 

“No.” Daisy cut him off before he could say another word, and was surprised at the strength in her own voice, “No, not at all. You’re incredible.” 

She watched Thomas’ face; she couldn’t help herself. Her reward was sudden light flush that began to color his high cheekbones. A pale pink, hardly visible in the dark. Yet she could feel it in his body heat, how it radiated outward in a powerful wave. Thomas snorted, tried to act nonchalant, but Daisy could tell that she was making an impression upon him. 

She plundered ahead. 

“You’re brave, and funny, and handsome,” and suddenly the words were pouring from her mouth without her being able to stop them. A wild barrage of verbal histrionics, “And you have incredibly strong arms, and nice teeth and you smell really lovely-“ 

Thomas coughed, his sharp cheeks completely inflamed now as he slapped a hand over his mouth to hide his embarrassment. He appeared to be utterly speechless, and the longer the silence stretched between them the more embarrassed Daisy became. 

“…Thank…you?” Thomas seemed completely out of his depth, grasping for whatever words he could find as he tried to keep his expressions as neutral as possible. At this point, he was fighting a losing battle, “I- that’s very kind of you?” 

But for his tone, it was clear he believed none of it. Daisy wondered if she was the first one to tell him such things. The first one to mention his better qualities instead of cursing his presence in a room. The very idea made her sick to her stomach to even contemplate. No one deserved to live that way. 

“It’s the truth.” Daisy urged and in spite of herself she slid a little closer to Thomas. He froze up, suddenly going quite stiff as the space between them diminished to almost nothing. It was rather adorable, Daisy thought, that he was so shy in such personal matters when he was so authoritative in every other aspect of life. What a queer change. “You’re amazing. If you’d only admit that to yourself, and stop seeing yourself as a bastard, you’d understand.” 

“It’s difficult to stop viewing myself as a bastard when everyone else does.” 

“I don’t see you that way.” 

“Then you’re forgetting a great deal of history between us.” Thomas snapped, “No amount of charm or wit makes up for the way I’ve treated you-“ 

“But you treat everyone like that, and frankly I think it’s just an act.” 

“And what about William; was that an act? Think of what I did to him-“ 

“There was more to that than met the eye, and you can’t convince me otherwise. You went to the farm to apologize, and that means a lot to me.” Daisy added after a beat of hesitation, “And I heard your through the door.” 

Thomas shook his head, pursing his lips. Daisy could see the walls going back up and her heart began to pound as her window of opportunity started to close, “William loved you-“ 

“I loved you before William.” 

Thomas’ eyes flew open. 

Fear. His eyes were full of fear. 

Daisy could have sworn in that moment that all the light fled from Thomas, as if the fear had chased it away to a remote corner of the universe where it was swallowed up forever. Her heart was pounding wildly now; she couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Had she read the signs wrong? Had she assumed he’d liked her back when he hadn’t? Thomas seemed close to leap away from her and running out of the courtyard, anything to put distance between them and Daisy began to creep backward in a horrible cloud of shame and regret. Thomas did not relax, his body still a tightly coiled spring of panic as he kept staring out across the courtyard. 

As if he was waiting for someone to walk in; his eyes searched endlessly in the morbid night. 

“…Daisy…” He was incredibly nervous, his voice betraying his fear; she’d never heard him sound so unsure, so frightened of the current moment. It seemed he didn’t know what to say, for his mouth simply hung open as he struggled for the words. 

Daisy flushed, horrible hot embarrassment taking her over as her cheeks grew bright pink again; the shame was so great she thought she might be swallowed whole from it- “I’m sorry-“ 

“Would you like to…” 

Daisy stopped talking at once, her heart growing still in her chest as she looked back up at Thomas with widened eyes. 

Thomas still looked frightened, as if he was asking his executioner to swing the axe instead of asking— what _was_ he asking? 

“That is…” Thomas swallowed, running a trembling hand over his jaw to briefly cover his mouth. His lips were almost purple for lack of blood, “Tomorrow I’m going to the village to do an inventory run. Would you… like to join me?” 

Daisy couldn’t believe it.   
From his tone, Thomas didn’t seem to believe it either. 

“…I…” 

The idea of being alone with Thomas for such an extended period of time was… excitable. A world of possibilities. Of what they might do or what they might say. They could talk of everything, from the weather to the upstairs, to their pasts or futures; every card could be laid on the table if Daisy so desired. Suddenly she regarded Thomas as one might a delightful book to be read. Every page was hers to peruse, to comb over till the words bled together. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to-“ Thomas said, and there was such fear in his voice that Daisy immediately jumped to set him right. 

“No, I do want to!” She assured him with a smile, “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Patmore first, though.” 

Thomas didn’t seem to have an adequate response, which was quite out of character for him. Daisy chalked it up to nerves, and was amazed that she’d inspired such trepidation in a normally composed man. 

He pulled out a cigarette and nearly dropped it for how his hands shook. In an instant, Daisy reached out and cupped her hand beneath his, her fingers brushing against his leather glove. Thomas jumped, and Daisy regretted frightening him so, save that she’d never been this close to him. In a way she wanted to get closer, to reach her hand out and stroke his cheek. To see if she could feel any stubble there. One of her oldest memories was of her older brother’s cheek having stubble, of feeling it before he’d shaved in the morning. 

Her hands remained wrapped around Thomas’ lighter. 

This was the moment where her personality so differed from Ivy’s, where her fate and fortune ran cold and dry while Ivy was given all the attention and praise. She wanted that praise, craved it desperately like a broken, defeated man might crave water or rest. She wanted to be nourished, to be loved, and from the moment that Thomas had called her ‘beautiful’ her heart had been set ablaze with possibilities. Daisy was determined to have her moment in the sun, to feel the warmth of love before life was done. Why not her? Why not now? 

And so, heart in throat, she reached out and placed Thomas’ lighter into his hands. Their palms were pressed, the smooth metal of the lighter squashed between them, and Daisy was certain Thomas would be able to feel her heart pounding wildly through her fingertips as her hand trembled in his own. His fingers were long, hardened through work, but they felt oddly soft beneath her own touch. She remarked out how feminine her hands looked (blisters, callouses and all) when they were compared to Thomas’. 

He was looking at her. 

“… I think we can handle Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas said at long last. 

He was afraid, Daisy could see it in his face, in his posture, in his very being… but fear was normal. Fear was natural. After being burned by a love, Thomas was probably unsure of how their own affair might handle out. Daisy could sympathize, with Alfred’s name still so heavy on her tongue. 

But her longing for love out weighed her fear, and she hoped Thomas felt the same. 

~*~

Thomas Barrow had done some incredibly stupid things in his life. 

At the age of fourteen he’d been found out by his father, a copy of a manuscript eluding to homosexual relations stuffed underneath his mattress the damning evidence that was hurled in his face as Thomas was slammed to the floor and shaken about like dice in a cup. At the age of fifteen he’d started a wild romance with a Duke; at the age of seventeen he’d been shown his fucking place and had drowned his sorrows in twenty-four bottles of stolen wine. At the age of nineteen he’d attempted to use the label of medic to escape the frontline. By the age of twenty one he’d more than paid for his idiocy in that matter. At the age of twenty four he’d attempted to haggle a black market scheme and had been promptly stuffed into the ground by the cruelties of untrustworthy men. He’d then promptly stolen a dog to try and shake the label of thief (a move that in hindsight made no fucking sense at all). At the age of twenty five, he’d fallen in love with Jimmy Kent. At the age of twenty six he’d gotten the shit kicked out of him for it. Now at the age of twenty nine, Thomas Barrow had once again done something foolish for no apparent reason. 

He’d asked a girl out on a date. 

Most young men would consider this a landslide given his life in service and the solemn identity it brought about. _“Good on you, mate!”_ they might declare, slapping him on the back and toasting him with a pint of ale down at the Grantham Arms. _“Here’s to chasin’ skirts!”_ and then they’d all sing a bawdy tune. 

The problem lay in the fact that Thomas was a raving degenerate homosexual and frankly couldn’t be bothered a nit about chasing skirts. 

He didn’t know why he’d said it- why he’d asked Daisy into town when he knew for a fact that he was gay and couldn’t love her- but a voice was nagging him now, whispering in his ear and making it difficult to think. He was imagining the servants hall, of everyone in love from Anna and John to bloody Joseph Moseley and Phyllis Baxter. Christ in heaven, even Carson and Hughes gave each other calf eyes from time to time when they thought no one was looking. Good lord, even Patmore had had her fancy man for a short time! Jimmy’s seat was cold, the wound on Thomas’ hip was throbbing with muted pain, and the terrible loneliness inside of him was threatening to flood him. Threatening to swallow him whole into another night of a cold bed and a bitter reality upon awakening. That he was alone, that he would always be alone. 

He didn’t _want_ to be alone. He didn’t _want_ to live alone, to eat alone, to try alone… to die alone. He didn’t want it. He wanted, craved, needed companionship. To be loved, that high ideal he’d so often chased only to fall flat on his face. First with Philip who had turned him away like a whore, then with Edward who had committed suicide, and finally Jimmy… who had been unable to resist temptation. 

He so sorely wanted love, so badly wanted a place at that table downstairs. To belong. To be greeted warmly. To have some type of hope for his future. 

And so, in that moment, when Daisy had declared her love, Thomas Barrow had done something wildly foolish for the basic primal need to be loved. To be cared for and treated with kindness. 

And now, in his room, laying wide awake upon his bed, Thomas’ heart pounded in his chest as he thought of his future and of the possibilities. Of the very idea that he might be able to love a woman. 

He’d never even thought about it. Had never once contemplated the idea simply because he’d known from the time he was old enough to form the thought that he preferred other men instead. Why think about women? What was the point? He found nothing desirable in them, and had therefore never looked beyond the initial concept. But as he lay in the dark, he tried to picture Daisy in his mind… as his own girl. He had to admit that she was very pretty in her own way, that to him her hair had always been a thing of beauty. Her eyes were warm, and when she smiled the room seemed to grow brighter. He tried to imagine her kissing him, pressing her warm lips to his own and cupping his cheeks in her hands. 

It was almost impossible to conjure the image and it didn’t last. His imagination couldn’t hold it; instead was beginning to run rampant with images of Jimmy- 

_Daisy’s brown hair morphed to golden curls as Jimmy wrapped his arms around Thomas’ neck and kissed him passionately. His hair was aflame, his eyes a deep purple, and the woods were bathed in a dusky hue. Jimmy opened his mouth a little wider and devoured Thomas whole, sucking his breathe- his very soul- away until there was nothing left but a shell to be discarded. A husk no longer necessary; an experience to be found far beyond it where he and Jimmy mingled in the very air and became one._

Thomas opened his eyes to stare blankly at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom, that new shade of purple chasing him all the way home.


	6. The Wisdom of David Baxter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She’d strung two and two together and come up with five by the end of it. Thomas’ love for Jimmy was as obvious as the nose on his face if you knew what you were looking for. When it came to Jimmy’s love for Thomas… things were not always as clear. He was doting, and affectionate, eager to make Thomas laugh or capture his attention when others strayed to close… but he’d also been far too quick to pester Ivy before she’d left for America. If he’d loved Thomas back, Phyllis had never known."

Thomas could recall with clear distinction the first time he’d watched David Baxter dress up to take a girl named Lucy McGale on a date. 

Thomas had been eleven years old and utterly besotted with David, despite him being twenty and far out of his league. A thin, and pathetically weak little boy, Thomas had adored David’s muscles and boisterous spirit, imagining him to be the sort of man that could take anything on the chin without faltering. In his faded trousers and too-big button down, Thomas had sat upon David’s bed with his shoes off and watched in awe as David shaved and put on cologne. The smell of Pinaud had been sharp upon the air, a foreign concept to Thomas who was too young to shave and too timid to try cologne even if he had been old enough. Slicking his tawny hair back with Brilliantine and throwing his damp hand towel over his shoulder, David had glanced over to Thomas on his bed and asked with an easy air _“How do I look?”_

The phrase, _“Please be my fancy man instead of Lucy McGale’s”_ had unfortunately been off the menu, so Thomas’ had settled for _“You’re the bee’s knees!”_ instead. 

David had just laughed and laughed, running a hand affectionately through Thomas’ unmanageable hair. Thomas’ childish heart had skipped a beat. 

Now Thomas was twenty nine years old, and David Baxter’s easy going reflection was no where to be found in the mirror Thomas faced. He supposed he should take more care to make sure he was well shaved and hair in place, but frankly found he couldn’t summon the strength when submerged in such a depressive hue. 

He made sure his pocket watch was secured tightly to his vest link; an item of his own invention made of spare parts and artfully bent metal. His father would have been proud of him.. if his father hadn’t been a raving drunk and Thomas a raving homosexual. 

_Eat your heart out Lucy McGale,_ Thomas thought as he regarded himself in the mirror. Cor, Lucy would be in her mid thirties by now if she was still alive. 

He headed downstairs, noting dully that despite the prospect of having a few hours outside of Downton Abbey he was far from excited. Indeed this felt more like a chore than an outing, one that would require the laborious act of putting on a happy face and pretending to be content with Daisy’s company. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her; indeed Daisy was quite a nice companion to keep about what with her wit and charm. It was simply that Thomas was depressed, and nothing seemed viable to lift his mood besides the return of Jimmy Kent. Since that was obviously never going to happen, Thomas’ pallor stayed low, and when he rounded the corner of the stairs to enter the hallway outside the kitchen he had to momentarily compose his face into an aloof and easy air before stepping inside. 

He found Daisy devoid of her usual apron and plum frock, instead wearing a coral pink dress that tied modestly in the front with a matching hat to boot. Mrs. Patmore was ranting and raving over a list, which she pointed at with clear authority while Daisy kept nodding away and attempting to get a word in edge wise. It was a lost cause. 

“Remember, I’ll want the Spanish vanilla extract and not that phony off brand-“ 

“I know, Mrs. Patmore-“ Daisy begged; she caught sight of Thomas in the doorway and her face lit up. Thomas winked at her for good measure, waiting for the appropriate moment to whisk her away. 

“And I’ll want Mr. Denver’s milk for the-“ 

“For the cream and filler, yes I know Mrs. Patmore!” Daisy whined, snatching her coat from a peg rack on the wall to fold it over her arm. It seemed she’d had enough; Mrs. Patmore gave her a heavy scowl which Daisy countered with the reprimand of, “This isn’t my first wedding cake!” 

“Well don’t expect me to give you any slack when you get it wrong!” Mrs. Patmore bellowed after Daisy’s retreating back. 

“Get me out of here-“ Daisy snapped at Thomas as she passed; Thomas could not help but snort. 

“And I’ll thank _you_ not to get her in a mood!” Mrs. Patmore added, her disapproval obvious and overbearing as she yanked a dirty dishtowel from her apron and snapped it like one might a whip. Thomas was unfazed. 

“Oh Mrs. Patmore. You wound me.” Thomas said, but he was already turning to leave the kitchen with Daisy paving the path in front of him bound for the courtyard entrance. They would be making a rather extensive grocery run, and for the sake of a faster trip to keep cold items fresh would be taking the car into the village proper. 

“I can’t stand it when she gets like this!” Daisy was saying as they exited the servant’s hall and stepped out onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. The day was bright but overcast, a pale gray keeping everything well lit while muted. Thomas helped Daisy to shrug on her coat as she kept on walking. “Every time there’s a wedding on, she acts like I’m back in pre school and wet behind the ears!” 

“Let’s hope she doesn’t have another panic attack.” Thomas remembered the night of the concert resulting in Alfred making the sauces, “What all do we need to get?” 

Daisy handed him the list as they rounded the corner out of the courtyard and took a small road towards the garage where the motorcar was kept waiting. The chauffeur, a portly man named Mr. Pellam, was an obliging sort of man who didn’t seem to mind the nonsense that accompanied the downstairs way of life. Some dribble about having no family, and mercifully he was far too old and tired to go about courting one of the Crawley sisters. He’d mentioned wanting to see Daisy and Thomas off, but he was no where to be found and Thomas wasn’t about to waste time looking for him; he knew how to drive the car. 

Medic training had been an education, if nothing else. 

“Great god alive are we making a cake or a fortress?” Thomas grumbled at the massive list, coming around the motorcar to open the passenger door. Daisy graciously took the hand he offered, hoping inside and taking the list back from him to fold it neatly into her hand bag. It was a faded, beaded thing, the sort of item you might buy at a county fair and keep for a lifetime for the sake of sentimentality. Thomas came back around the car and climbed aboard the car, finding the keys in the ignition and waiting for him. 

“You know how to drive?” Daisy asked, eager to see him in action. 

Thomas shifted the clutch, grinning wryly at Daisy’s amazed expression. 

“I know how to do many things.” He replied, earning him another cheery smile from Daisy. 

They pulled out of the garage, heading west into town and down the dusty road with good time. The leather seats were pleasantly warm from the sunlight overhead, and the breeze blowing through the open windows was refreshingly cool. The day was an interloper, a half-way between fall and winter where the cold wasn’t too chilly and the warmth too weak; a perfect day for a drive. 

Thomas would have been enjoying himself by this point if it hadn’t have been for the fact that he could not smoke in the motorcar and had to entertain Daisy. 

Mercifully, she was good at entertaining herself. She certainly talked enough for the both of them. 

“Lady Rose is so elegant and glamorous.” Daisy said with just a touch of envy in her voice, “I bet her wedding is going to be massive.” 

While Thomas could normally find it in him to agree, the social situation was slightly more complex than Daisy realized. 

“I wouldn’t count on it- they may have large parties but the wedding itself will probably be quite small.” Thomas said. Daisy watched him carefully. 

“Why do you say that?” She asked. 

“Well the Sinderby’s are jewish, and Lady Rose’ family is christian, they cannot get married in a church or a synagogue without snubbing someone’s family… and knowing Lady Rose she’ll want to do things as originally as possible.” Thomas explained, to which Daisy gave a knowing look and nodded absently. Her gaze drifted over his face; Thomas wondered what she was looking at, what was capturing her attention, “She’ll probably have a courthouse wedding, then top it off with a massive party.” 

“But that won’t be so bad, will it?” Daisy mused, unfazed whichever way the event panned out, “Courthouse weddings can be nice.” 

“Certainly they can be.” Thomas agreed, privately wishing he could hurl himself from the motorcar for how little he enjoyed their conversation. He didn’t want to talk about weddings- about anything really. Silence was a blessing; he craved it in that moment. Unfortunately for him, Daisy seemed fit to talk at any given moment so that he couldn’t properly relax even as he drove. 

“When you get married, will you want it to be at a courthouse or a church?” Daisy asked. 

Ah yes, moving from one pleasurable topic to the next. Thomas was ready to hurl. 

“You make it sound as if I stand a chance of marrying at all-“ Thomas said, thinking briefly back to his momentarily hallucination of Jimmy and a wedding in the woods. 

That’d bend Daisy’s ear sure enough: _“Hey Daisy want to hear about this dream I have of marrying Jimmy in the woods?”_

“Don’t you?” 

“Not everyone can be as lucky as the Bates.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Thomas looked over at Daisy, careful not to take his eyes off the road for too long lest they have an accident. She was smiling at him coyly, in a way that Thomas would gather was meant for flirtation. Here were the moments where ‘normal’ men might turn their charms upon a woman and bend her ear right back. Unfortunately for Thomas he lacked the ability to flirt naturally, as had been his curse ever since his youth. He could recall being young, barely fifteen, and attempted to charm other men at darker dance halls. One in particular had thought him utterly adorable. Another had thought him a bit mad. He supposed he was a mixture of the two, when you came right down to it. 

He’d spent three hours in his room cursing himself and smacking his head against the door when he’d grabbed Jimmy’s arm and declared him a ‘lovely person’ in the middle of the servant’s hall. God forbid he do that to Daisy. Patmore would be after him with her rolling pin. 

“Alright then,” Thomas tried his best to sound flirtatious, ignoring the voice in his head that arrogantly demanded to know just what the hell he thought he was doing. “What about your wedding? Let’s hear it.” 

“I’ve already had a wedding-“ Daisy lamented, quite put out about the whole affair. The subject of William Mason was still a sore one for Thomas; he wondered if it would be possible for them to skip over it altogether. 

_‘This is what you get for flirting!’_ a voice snarled at him from inside his head, _‘You’re going to make her cry if you keep this up!’_

If Daisy started crying Thomas was going to throw himself out of the motorcar. Preferably into a ravine. 

“That wedding wasn’t ideal.” Thomas approached the topic as carefully as he could, suddenly wishing he’d never broached it at all, “William would have wanted a different wedding.” 

“It’s true.” Daisy agreed, and Thomas was relieved to hear that she didn’t sound distressed. She even seemed to be pondering now, tapping her chin as the world rushed by out her window. “I think William would have wanted it in a church.” 

“And you?” Thomas tried for a coy tone, his pitch rising at the tail end. Daisy beamed; a clear but hollow victory in his book. 

“I think I’d want it in a church too.” Daisy said, the tiniest blush creeping into her cheeks at this, “But a small one. It wouldn’t be about the church- I just don’t want to have it in an office. What about you?” 

“A forest.” 

The words slipped out of Thomas’ mouth before he could stop them, and he had to suddenly seize up on his facial expression lest he fall into a tirade of curses and grimaces that would scare Daisy senseless. Daisy seemed amazed by this, her brown eyes sparkling with delight as she pondered his answer. 

“A forest? Oh that sounds beautiful. You think of everything.” 

Thomas could not help but internally praise Daisy for her unintentional blessing of Thomas’ marriage to Jimmy. 

The rest of the drive into town was filled with idle prattle on every topic from downstairs gossip to Daisy’s studies. Thomas could keep up the banter, had developed the habit from sheer force of living with twenty other people who were all prone to swim in boring conversation, but by the end of it he was craving a cigarette and ten minutes alone in the quiet. Daisy had several grocers to visit while Thomas took his own list that housed a variety of items from lace for Phyllis to a new pack of cards for one of the hall boys- a day in the village was a day for stocking up on everything that had been depleted and by the end of it Thomas was carrying a significant bundle under his arm. 

He did not enjoy walking through the local village despite the refreshing pace that it offered him away from Downton’s gloomy atmosphere. He was a well known figure in the village, having earned himself a rather peculiar reputation in among the local men after saving Jimmy from his beating. On the one hand, many of the harder cads admired him for his ability to take a punch and gave him a steady eye as he passed. On the other hand, several men (particularly of the older generation) were wary of him and seemed to know that there was something ‘peculiar’ about him. It was that same icy look his own father had given him many a time and Thomas didn’t care for it. It assumed to much from his silence alone. 

_“Why doesn’t he have a girl?”_ they’d ask, despite the fact that many men were single when bound to a life of service. 

Thomas picked up several cartons of Woodbine from the tobacco shop.

_“Had a keen eye for that blonde chap.”_ they’d sneer, as if it wasn’t respectable to defend a friend in need. 

He picked up more Beecham’s powders from the pharmacist. Anna had made a run earlier in the week but for some reason had been utterly unenthused about the prospect of visiting the pharmacist ‘again’ and so Thomas ran her errand for her.

_“Looks like a right chit.”_ they’d scoff when they thought he wasn’t listening. 

Thomas might have a more feminine face than Bates or Carson, but he was by no means a chit and did not care for the insinuation behind it. Homosexual he was; Oscar Wilde he was not. He enjoyed his steak and potatoes like any other working class lad, and there was nothing a good cigarette couldn’t fix as far as he was concerned. Even if he hadn’t been- even if he’d had more feminine tastes or kept wilder company- it didn’t stop him from being a man. Men trying to ‘out man’ each other made just as much sense as shooting yourself in the foot to prove you could stand the pain. 

_“There’s more than one way to skin a cat”_ O’Brian had once declared. Like so often before and after, she’d been right. It was strange; whenever Thomas recalled O’Brian he couldn’t find it in him to hate her. He supposed it would be easy to do so, and who would blame him? She’d used him, manipulated him, coerced him into making the worst mistake of his life and then delighted in his near downfall. Yet she’d also been his lone confidant, his only friend for nearly ten years of his life at Downton Abbey. 

Such bonds were not easily shattered, even by the pain of betrayal. 

So it was that in order to avoid the stares of the local men and to find refuge in a much needed cigarette, Thomas deposited his bundle in the backseat of the motorcar and then sought sanctuary in an alley behind the post office. 

There was something so utterly satisfying in lighting up a Woodbine and taking that first inhale; the rush of nicotine made Thomas briefly forget his pitiful situation and all that it entailed. Right now Daisy was probably busying about in the pastry shops or haggling over oranges and he really couldn’t give less of a shit. Daisy was a good girl, a kind girl, but she was also boring for all her sweetness and didn’t inspire conversation in Thomas the way that others could. 

The way that Jimmy could. 

Thomas shook his head, wreathed momentarily in a cloud of smoke as he expelled another lungful. 

“-New lead in the case, that has me suspecting Mr. Bates may not be our primary concern.” 

Thomas stopped dead, his cigarette half way to his mouth.   
He turned his head to the right, looking down the alleyway to where it turned a bend and went around the back of the post office. Someone was just around that bend talking about Mr. Bates. Who was he to deny an opportunity of fate? 

Thomas looked down at his feet, noting rubbish that might make noise if he stirred it; careful with how he walked he slowly took a few steps forward with his back to the scuffed brick of the post office. The more he crept, the more he heard, his heart beginning to pick up the pace as he gleefully began to plot all the delightful things he was about to hear. He knew that Bates had been involved with Greene- that the London detective Mr. Vyner was of the same opinion. In that moment he praised his outing with Daisy, his need for Woodbine cigarettes, and the placement of the alley behind the post office that all conspired to give him a front seat showing to the undoing of John Bates. The self-righteous bastard.

“Oh yeah?” Another man was saying; Thomas recognized it as the voice of a portly policeman who had been stepping around the Abbey for several weeks now. He’d questioned Bates, Hughes, Anna, and unfortunately Phyllis Baxter- but that was no matter now. Thomas would not be troubling Phyllis again, even if Bates really was involved somehow with the death of Greene. He’d mentioned in the privacy of his own sitting room (unaware of Thomas hiding outside) that he hadn’t been in London on the day that Greene had died. Perhaps it was an accident and Bates was merely involved by coincidence. Perhaps it was more than an accident, and though Bates hadn’t been physically present, he had been involved. 

Either way Thomas felt like a child at the circus getting ready to watch a ring-top event. 

“It’s a matter of height-“ Came Vyner’s sneering drawl, “Mr. Bates was too tall to kill Green. But Mrs. Bates was smaller than Mr. Green, and similar to the pattern in women he’d assaulted. Slight, small, too nervous to come forward- she fits the target.” 

What. 

Thomas cocked an ear, his brain struggling to comprehend the abundant information that had just been dumped in his lap. 

Vyner thought Anna was the murderer? Was he mad- Anna wouldn’t hurt a fly! Admittedly she could get a bit saucy, but murder? No. That was far beyond her call and cry. To likewise insist that Greene had somehow assaulted Anna? Thomas thought back to every time Greene had interacted with Anna but came up with nothing concrete. They’d all been in the servant’s hall together- Greene had left after the concert- there hadn’t been a time when Greene could assault Anna without someone seeing or hearing. God only knows they’d had enough roving eyes in that house on that weekend- 

“And it would give her plenty of motive.” The portly policeman added. 

“Motive how?” Came a third voice that Thomas did not recognize. He found himself asking the very same question- _how_ had Greene assaulted Anna? Surely… surely… 

Suddenly it was becoming harder to breath. 

“Well, Mr. Greene wasn’t the sunny soul the London police originally thought him to be.” Vyner explained; Thomas heart began to pound in his ears, “It turns out he had a habit of attacking women. Slight, quiet, women who’d usually given him no trouble.” 

“The bastard-“ came that third voice, bitter with the implication of Vyner’s words. 

“Be that as it may, I am almost convinced that Mr. Greene raped Anna Bates.” 

Numb. His face was numb. 

Perhaps it was divine providence that put the image into Thomas’ head, but he suddenly remembered the night of the concert. How Anna had snuck downstairs for a Beecham’s powder halfway through. 

Greene had followed a minute or so later. 

Greene had followed. 

Greene had _followed._

Thomas could now see Anna plain as day in his head, the morning after the concert; her busted lip and bruised forehead; her frazzled expression and her frightened demeanor. 

Greene had been sitting right _next_ to her. 

_“What’s wrong with everyone this merry morn?”_ Thomas had demanded with an arrogant approach. 

Thomas could see Greene now, snide and sneering, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed Thomas from across the boot room. 

Thomas had been feet away. A table’s width away.   
And he’d known _nothing._ He’d done _nothing._

_“On the contrary Mr. Carson, I shall remember this visit for many years to come.”_ Greene had said. 

Nothing. He’d done absolutely nothing. 

Anna had comforted him when Sybil had died.   
Anna had put her arm around him when Sybil had died.   
Anna had listened to him when Sybil had died.   
And he’d done _nothing._

He clutched at the brick wall behind him, a spluttering noise escaping from his throat that had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with rage. Red flashed behind his eyes, blood pumping through his ears as everything began to fall into place. 

Of course Bates had wanted to kill the bastard. Thomas would have killed him too if he’d been given half the chance. Of course Bates had stayed behind while Thomas had gone to America; Anna couldn’t be left on her own while recovering from such a trauma. Of course Phyllis had refrained from telling him more about the Bates. She’d known pound for a penny Thomas would stir up trouble for Bates, drugged out of his mind, and wouldn’t even question why it was that Bates was in trouble in the first place. So eager was Thomas for chaos that he didn’t care where the gun powder got flung. 

Horrible hot shame boiled beneath him, causing a flush to creep up his neck and onto his cheeks. Here he’d been hiding in an alleyway eager to find something to hold over Bates’ head. 

Now he could barely breath for the pressure upon his chest. 

“No one can confirm she wasn’t in London on that day.” Vyner went on, snapping Thomas out of his reverie; his brain suddenly kicked into high gear, every fiber of his being now screaming that he had to get Anna out of trouble and _quick_. He was clever, he was smart, he could pull this off-! 

Who was he kidding, he was a fucking idiot- but that wasn’t going to stop him from at least attempting to save Anna if he had the ability. 

And _oh,_ did he have the ability. 

“Then you think she may have killed him?” the policeman whispered, eager to keep his voice low despite the privacy of the back ally. 

“I think she may know more than she’s saying at the very least.” Vyner sneered. Thomas winced, remembering his own damning letter sent weeks ago amid his painful struggles. 

So what it boiled down to was that Anna needed an alibi. And a damn good one too, given that Anna could be seen as having a motive and the means to a murder. The day of Greene’s death had been the day that Lord Grantham had returned from America, and Thomas cursed that he’d been absent for a damn good part of the day. Mercifully everyone else had been at the house- but had Anna? Thomas couldn’t remember. The real person to ask would be Jimmy- he’d been there- but Jimmy was gone now (much to Thomas’ constant distress and now sheer irritation). Jimmy was friendly with Anna, though. He’d be in a right state to hear… about… 

And then suddenly a wicked thought came to Thomas.   
An utterly devious, wicked thought. 

Post was a charming thing, wasn’t it? 

Thomas jerked off the brick wall, rounding it with all the confidence and swagger he could manage after such a staggering revelation. He was greeted with the sight of the three policemen, each of whom was indulging in a cigarette. Clustered together and dark browed, they looked like a gaggle of crows ready to pick over a corpse but Thomas would be damned if that corpse was Anna Bates. At once, Vyner fell silent upon Thomas’ approach. The Yorkshire policeman stiffened, attempting to look like he was vigilantly at his post instead of gossiping with law men from out of time. The portly policeman just looked bemused, too simple to attempt to put up a lie. 

“Excuse me, sir.” Thomas approached Vyner with slight caution. It was mere habit by now that policemen made Thomas on edge as he realized that any of this men would throw him straight in Gaol if they knew one inch of the things he’d done in his life. Without warning images rushed through his mind- 

_Phillip feverishly kissing his neck as he pressed him against the door of his illustrious bedroom, the dark only broken from flickering shadows of the low fire._

_Edward putting his hand on Thomas’ knee, unable to look him in the eye but every inch of him pervading a beautiful warmth._

_Jimmy asleep in bed, an utter angel against his pillow-_

Thomas steeled himself, that last image so strong and violent against the force of the three policemen that he feared he might faint. 

Particularly because that last memory had almost involved the police. 

“Yes?” Vyner asked, slightly wary of Thomas for how green he must have appeared. 

“Forgive me but I couldn’t help over hearing and I work alongside the Bates; I happen to know a few things that may help your case.” Thomas began, his plan running through his mind step by step: Set up the police, write to Jimmy, set up a letter just in case the first letter did not reach or work, flesh out the lie, tell the police the lie… pray the Bates went along with it. 

That last bit could use some work, admittedly. 

“And you are?” Vyner asked, still wary. 

“Barrow- Mr. Thomas Barrow.” Thomas extended his hand just as his father had taught him at the age of ten. 

_“Don’t let customers think your grip is weak.” his father warned, his fingers like iron as they made Thomas’ knuckles pop under their pressure. “Let them know you’re a man of solid business. And don’t wince-!”_

“Will you come to call on the Abbey soon?” Thomas asked. 

“We will.” Vyner said, his eyes trailing over Thomas’ face. Once again Thomas felt that ugly rush of fear at having a policeman look too closely at him. “-And I’ll make sure to speak to you while I’m there, Mr. Barrow.” 

“Thank you sir.” Thomas let go of Vyner’s hand, his fingers twitching as they tingled with slight numbness. “Good day to you.” With that he tipped his hat, and Vyner did the same. 

Thomas turned and left the alley, using every inch of self control he possessed to keep from breaking into a run. He rounded the bend just as he had done before, casting his half smoked cigarette aside to let it flicker and die in a grimy puddle. As he exited the ally way he suddenly came upon the sight of Daisy loading several crates of groceries into the backseat of the motorcar with the help of a grocer. He was too frightened to mask his pale expression, too eager to get the ball rolling to hide his distress from Daisy who glanced at him and then did a double take in surprise at his panic. 

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked at once. 

“Nothing- I’ve got to send a telegram.“ Thomas stumbled up the steps of the post office, jerking the door open in an iron grip to storm inside. 

He sent two matching telegrams, paid for their sums, and prayed to god it would be enough. 

When he exited the post office, he was in no better state than when he’d entered, and Daisy looked right concerned about how as she waited by the motor car. He supposed he looked dreadful, pale and sickly despite how earlier he’d been in good spirits (or at least had pretended to be). There on the main streets of Grantham county, Thomas wanted to fold in like a house of cards and hide like a child from the world. He wanted privacy. He wanted to rage. He wanted Greene alive, if only for the sick pleasure of taking his life a second time. Anna’s bruised and beaten face just kept swimming in his head, making him want to vomit all over the damp pavement as he opened the passenger door of the motorcar and helped Daisy inside. 

He counted every blessing in his book that Daisy did not automatically ask him questions as they pulled off down the road, unsure of what he might say in that moment as he re-read his telegram to Jimmy and Alfred over and over in his mind. God only knows what they were going to think when they received it. They’d likely think him mad. Thomas was already concocting a back up plan, determined to pen letters himself just in case neither Alfred nor Jimmy responded to his desperate plea before time ran out. 

“You look pale.” 

Thomas’ hands jerked a little on the steering wheel as Daisy snapped him out of his reverie. He glanced at her, noting that she seemed quite apprehensive with a small bag of cookies in her lap. If only Thomas hadn’t become distracted by the police; he might have picked up more scraps of tin and iron from the hardware store. They’d do him well in making pocket watches; he was getting down to the bare bones in his parts box. 

“Are you still ill?” Daisy asked, sounding quite worried as they continued on up the lane towards Downton. 

“Admittedly I’m not at my best.” Thomas replied, inwardly cursing his vile luck. If only Greene weren’t already dead; if only he were a more violent man! 

He’d break the bastard’s neck sure enough, or take a shaving razor and slit his throat-

“What got you so sick?” Daisy asked, downright confused. 

“I guess I just wasn’t taking care of myself.” Thomas replied as vaguely as he dared ( _‘Or others’_ his mind added nastily). He winced in spite of himself. 

“Well I hope you’re taking care of yourself now.” Daisy sounded almost amused; she opened the bag of cookies in her lap and revealed a pile of gingerbread mounds. She offered him one, “I got you these.” 

Thomas took the cookie from her, biting into it and allowing the warm spices to fill his senses. It was almost comforting, to eat without thinking as he desperately tried to pull his mind back from Anna- from the image of her beaten and battered at the servant’s table the day after the concert. 

“And here I was thinking you made them from scratch.” Thomas teased, hoping a joke would take his mind off the turmoil rolling just beneath the surface of his mind. 

“I do!” Daisy declared hotly, taking slight offense so that Thomas could not help but snort with amusement, “I just saw these and though you might like them.” 

“That’s very kind of you.” Thomas said, glad to have a cookie to eat with so much on his mind, “And if it helps, you make them better.” 

Daisy giggled softly, a melodic vibration upon the air that drifted over the noise of the puttering engine or the air whirring past. She ate a cookie with care, her smile growing broader by the minute as she mused to herself. 

“You know, it’s really nice to be with you when the others aren’t around.” Daisy admitted, “I like being with you on my own.” 

Thomas snorted, unsure of what to say to such a statement. 

“I mean it!” Daisy added, “I want to do it more often.” 

“I could take you on runs with me if you like-“ Thomas shrugged, “But I doubt Mrs. Patmore-“ 

“I’d like to do more than that.” Daisy admitted, and suddenly Daisy stopped short as if she’d said too much. 

Frankly, she had, but she couldn’t very well pull her words back now could she? 

Thomas’ mouth suddenly felt quite dry as he focused fully on the road before him. God forbid he slip up and have an accident like Matthew Crawley. What excuse would he be able to give the others? _“Sorry for wrecking the car, a girl was hitting on me and my lavender brain couldn’t keep up.”_

If only there were an instruction manual with how best to proceed. 

In that moment, Thomas thought of David Baxter, of how smooth and controlled he’d been around girls that had fluttered and fawned for his attention. He’d been quick to take advantage of an opportunity, offering to walk them around the edge of town or show them his family barn. 

_“A yew’s just given birth- you ought to see the lamb!”_ he’d crow, though Thomas knew damn well now lamb had been born and David was just trying to get the girl on her own away from disapproving adults. 

That was the next step he supposed. To spend time with Daisy away from the others and not for the exaggerated purpose of grocery shopping. He’d once sat with his gran at the tender age of five and practically been buried beneath a spool of her yarn as she knitted a baby blanket for his yet to be born sibling. Margret had had the good sense to hide in the garden; Thomas had been too stupid to realize that sitting near his grandmother would result in him being roped into doing her dirty work- namely holding her fraying yarn. 

If Thomas cold help his grandmother yarn for three hours, he could most certainly endure Daisy’s company alone for extended periods of time. She at least was pleasant enough to talk to and didn’t smell like mothballs. 

She also didn’t demand he hold three yards worth of yarn just because he sat near her. 

“What are you doing later tonight?” Thomas asked, well aware of how peculiar his words might sound to Daisy. 

She toyed nervously with the hem of her pink sleeve, her eyes cast about nervously as she pointedly avoided looking Thomas in the face. Even out of his peripheral vision, Thomas could see that Daisy was blushing. 

“I have to work on this cake all day but… after ten I should be free.” Daisy offered. 

Thomas found himself asking the age old question: _“What would David Baxter do?”_

His answer was a simple one: he’d take Daisy up to the roof of Downton Abbey and let her see truly stupendous sight. If nothing else it would make for excellent conversation filler, and cross off yet another box in Thomas’ attempts at ‘normalcy’. 

As if it bitter agreement, the sutures throbbed on his hip. 

“I have an idea.” Thomas said, though in true nature to David Baxter he gave Daisy no clues as to what his plan would entail, “I’ll come for you at ten, alright?” 

Daisy looked terribly flustered, but she was grinning bashfully from ear to ear.   
David Baxter would be proud. 

“Alright.” She said after a moment… and that was that. 

 

As soon as they returned to the abbey and sorted out their massive pile of groceries, Thomas tried to avoid Anna all day. He was unable to get Vyner’s words out of his head, and every time he heard the telltale click of heels against the stone floor Thomas would find himself dashing into the nearest open door for fear he’d run into Anna and be hit with another hot wave of shame. The more he tried to come up with an adequate way to apologize or explain his situation, the more embroiled with inner turmoil he became until by the end of it he was ready to lock himself in the kitchen pantry for a week if only to avoid everyone downstairs altogether. 

Dinner had been an absolute nightmare for Thomas, as he walked the razor edge of smiling at Daisy when she passed around the plates of steamed vegetables and avoiding Anna’s gaze when she asked him to pass the salt. Bates had continued to glare at him, as had Moseley, and Phyllis had just kept looking at his left thigh as if she expected it to burst into flame while Carson grumbled about ‘lack of tact’ in ‘upper staff’ which could only either boil down to Thomas or Patmore. Thomas had a feeling it was him, given the amount of heat he felt radiating off of his face from Carson’s pointed glare. 

The only way this dinner could get more fucked up would be if Jimmy and Phillip were sitting with him, each vying for his attention while David Baxter kept pace across from Thomas casually offering up a nuggets of wisdom such as: _“Jimmy’s a looker but Philip’s got a wild streak, you can’t deny.”_

Thomas ended up leaving dinner half an hour early and taking refuge outside in the courtyard to smoke four cigarettes in a row while cursing himself and wishing to god he could grow a spine. 

When Thomas returned back inside, he found dinner broken up and servant’s scattered to the four corners of the earth tending to their menial night tasks. So it was that as he rounded the door into the servant’s hall in the vain hope he might find the evening paper left out by Moseley he ran smack into Anna darning lace at the table all by herself. 

And suddenly Thomas forgot to breath. 

She paused mid stitch, glancing up at him again in the doorway. Thomas didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was looking. 

“… Something on your mind, Mr. Barrow?” Anna asked, looking back down at the lace in her hands to resume her work. 

_Mr. Barrow,_ she called him. It made Thomas want to hurl. Anna had been working here before him, had known him through his time as the original second footman. 

“You don’t have to call me that.” Thomas offered, noting that his face was unbearably hoarse from emotion. 

“I should think so.” Anna toyed, “You are the under butler.” 

“Anna.” 

She looked up again, and when she saw the expression upon his face she paused in her work. Thomas had no way of knowing what he looked like; if he was frightfully serious or just pale and clammy. Either way, Anna seemed to gather there was more at stake in their conversation than a simple name. 

“Don’t call me that.” Thomas asked her. Anna set down her sewing. 

“Thomas, what’s wrong?” She asked, and Thomas was deeply relieved to hear the name change, “You look awful. You hardly ate at dinner.” 

He could not confess what he knew. Not so openly when anyone could walk past in the servant’s hall. Even if they were alone, with assured privacy from spying eyes and ears, Thomas had a feeling it would be nye on impossible for him to admit he knew Anna had been raped. He felt like an utter failure, a miserable excuse for a man, a pathetic attempt at a friend and co worker. If only he’d known sooner, had been able to do something about it-… but even if he had known sooner what on earth could he have done? 

Thomas wasn’t a violent man, and Greene deserved far worse that whatever he could have given. 

So instead he settled for something else: to avoid an apology, a thank you. 

“I wanted to say thank you.” Thomas said. Anna seemed slightly surprised, blanching a little as she narrowed her eyes and looked about for a reason. 

“Whatever for?” She asked. 

“For being kind to me.” 

She had been kind to him; it could not be denied. When Lady Sybil had died, Thomas had felt shattered. Suddenly the meager number of six kind people in his life had drifted back down to five, and Thomas once more could only count his friends on one hand. O’Brian had been in that hall too, but it had been Anna to follow him out… Anna to lean against him and listen to what he had to say. 

Thomas knew why that had been. It made him bitter to admit it… but he knew why.   
Anna had cared. O’Brian had not. 

But there was more. A current issue that Anna had shed light on perhaps without even knowing it. 

“… The day we heard the king speak… You…” Thomas drifted off, swallowing around a dry mouth. Anna was still looking at him, waiting patiently to hear what he had to say. She was the very embodiment of patience, it seemed. She’d certainly put up with enough of his shit over the years. “You were the only one who…. noticed. Me.” 

Anna just kept staring. 

Thomas could not say it, could not beg her forgiveness for failing to protect her against Greene and being such a horrid co-worker. She seemed to understand there were heavier things on his mind than he was letting on. She nodded, the tiniest movement of her head as she folded her hands over her abandoned knitting. 

“I know it has to be very hard on you.” She whispered.   
Thomas swallowed again. 

“Everyone has their troubles.” He said. Anna just gave him a faint smile, “You don’t deserve yours.” 

Her smile dropped. 

“…You’re a good person, Anna.” Thomas said, and he meant every word of it. Anna just listened. “You don’t… deserve… anything that’s happened to you.” 

Anna nodded again. 

“Thank you, Thomas.” She replied, and she seemed quite sincere as well, “That's very kind of you.” 

“I just want to say that…” Thomas broke off, unsure where his own sentence was going as Anna continued to look at him, “…If I could…” 

But what could he do? He gestured fruitlessly, his mouth falling open with a lack of adequate words. 

“There’s no need, Thomas.” Anna assured him, her tone turning somber as she shook her head. 

“There is _every_ need.” Thomas replied, and though he had not meant to his tone turned sharp and hard. Anna caught it, and stared at him reproachfully as he blushed violently and looked away. He had not meant to let so much emotion get out through his voice. 

“… I don’t understand you, Thomas.” Anna admitted. Thomas could not help but glance back, wanting to watch her eyes as she spoke so openly to him. He found her slightly cold but not without understanding. She was hurt; he had hurt her. “Sometimes you can be so horribly nasty. And then other times, like now, you can be so kind. Why do you say such cruel things to Mr. Bates, to anyone, when you can be so kind instead?” 

Thomas shrugged, listless in his self-hatred.   
Just like before with Mr. Mason, what adequate answer could he give? There was none. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He replied bitterly, “It’s all I know how to be.” 

“I think Jimmy would disagree.” Anna said, never taking her eyes off of him. 

Thomas knew his face was slipping with emotion; he set his jaw in a tight lock, looking away from Anna lest she see the misery in his eyes. 

“…Jimmy was different.” He conceded. 

“I think he liked you.” Anna said, but such concepts were folly and could not be tolerated when Thomas knew they were in vain. Anna was simply being kind, not truthful. 

“I think you’re just being nice.” Thomas replied. Anna frowned, though this time not in misgivings, “I think you know as well as I do that Jimmy never liked me-“ 

“I think you say that to make it hurt less.” Anna observed. Thomas winced, in spite of himself. 

She knew how to cut to the quick, make no mistake. 

“He liked you Thomas.” Anna repeated, and this time she said with such sincerity and warmth that Thomas felt his heart bleat angrily. “A lot.” 

But what would it matter even if Jimmy had liked Thomas? Jimmy had been smart, if he’d liked Thomas, to keep Thomas from knowing. Had kept his emotions under wraps so as to save them both from prison or far worse. 

There was no hope for men like Thomas. He could only pray Jimmy was never in his shoes; that Jimmy found a girl and a shot at happiness in life. 

“I envy you.” Thomas admitted. Anna blinked, taken aback. Thomas looked away, leaning against the scarred wall and instead choosing to look at the abandoned stair well that lead to the rest of the house. 

The silence between them was an awful thing, born out of ugliest misery and admission to the bitter facts of life. 

“The happy couple and everyone’s so pleased.” Thomas mumbled, parroting the same words he’d uttered to Bates years ago. A night without stars, he remembered, “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” 

Anna did not answer right away. 

“I envy you.” She offered, though Thomas snorted at this for he could not see why a woman like Anna would envy a man in his position. What was she lacking in her life? The threat of jail time? 

_(No, not even that,_ his brain sneered, _by god the girl has everything!)_

“You’re so strong.” Anna murmured; Thomas snorted. 

“You can take it all on the china and keep moving as you were before. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” 

“Don’t envy me, Anna.” Thomas whispered, “I have nothing.” 

“You have your strength.” 

But did he really when there were sutures in his hip? 

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew.” Thomas said, wondering just what Anna might say if she knew all that he’d put himself through in the past month. 

She’d probably think him an idiot. 

“Knew what?” she asked. 

Thomas could not bear the shame of it, would never admit to it. 

“Nothing.” Thomas coughed, looking down at his shoes and noting that they were severely smudged; he ought to polish them before Carson made a point about it, “I’m sorry to have bothered you for as long as I have. I didn’t mean to keep you from your work.” 

He stood away from the wall, taking a few hesitant steps towards the kitchen. He could see the edge of Daisy’s skirt flitting in and out of view, a dazzle of plum against a backdrop of gray. 

And yet…. 

Thomas turned, and found Anna watching him still from the table. It burned him to see the pity in her eyes. He despised pity. 

But he wouldn’t hold that against her, when by all rights she could be pitied as much as he. 

“You did me a good turn that day, Anna.” Thomas murmured, “And if I can ever repay it… Please let me know.” 

She smiled, though it were a weary and aged thing. 

“You could be a little kinder to Mr. Bates.” She offered with the tiniest touch of humor in her tired voice. 

She had a point there. Not that Thomas would be taking her up on it. 

Phyllis entered the room, more lace under her own arm, and as she took a seat across from Anna at the table the pair of them struck up conversation about the impending wedding. It was as good excuse as any to go collect Daisy from the kitchen. 

“I’m sick of hearing about this wedding.” Thomas muttered to himself as he walked down the passage towards the kitchen, “It’s only been on twenty four hours-“ 

But as he entered the kitchen he found Mrs. Patmore and Daisy pouring over a book so large that it nearly took up the entire tea table, pages crusted with bits of flecked cake mix and text so ancient it could have been in latin. They were both nursing cups of tea while scullery maids washed up from dinner, the kitchen a mixture of sloshing and banging sounds as copper pots knocked against the insides of the sink in soapy water. 

“Now, for the wedding cake’s top tier-“ Mrs. Patmore started. 

“And it continues-!” Thomas sneered, throwing his hands up as he turned to abandon the kitchen for the safety of the hall. But he needn’t have bothered for Daisy was already laughing and the sound of a scraping chair gave him cause to look over his shoulder. 

“I think I’ll turn in for the night Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy was still laughing, no doubt tickled by how grumpy Thomas was getting over a wedding cake. Mrs. Patmore did not look happy to see Thomas in her kitchen (a sentiment he cared very little about), and scowled as Daisy set her tea cup aside to take off her apron. She was pink in the face, exhausted but eager as she joined Thomas in the doorway. She smelt like cinnamon and nutmeg, a weird after-flavor of the baked apples they’d had at dinner. 

“Be off with you then,” Mrs. Patmore waved her off irritably, “but get plenty of sleep. We have a great deal of cooking to do and not a lot of time to do it in.” 

“Goodnight, Mrs. Patmore-“ 

“Goodnight.” 

Daisy was already out the door, and Thomas followed in her footsteps to the cooler air of the hallway. She wiped her brow with an absent hand, smiling vaguely as he lead her to the stairs. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to get out of that kitchen.” Daisy admitted. “It were like an oven in there.” 

“You look exhausted.” Thomas agreed. 

“Not really.” Daisy shrugged, “I just need a breath of fresh air. 

“Good.” Thomas began to long trek up, the weight of the key to the roof heavy in his pocket, “I have just the thing.” 

~*~

There were times when Phyllis could simply pretend that the past five years of her life had not happened. That 1920 had not been filled with the sound of clanging bars and screams from fellow inmates, purveyed by the hellish gloom of mold and rotting bunks. In the quiet and calm of Downton Abbey, the rest of the world seemed cut off or simply erased. As if all land beyond the border were nothing but a gray English mist. Sitting at the servant’s table, freshly scrubbed and smelling lightly of lemon, Phyllis felt clean herself. As if everything in her past were gone and the only thing that lay before her, that mattered now, was the lace to be mended in her hands. 

She darned it with care, the tips of her fingers slightly numb from years of pricking herself accidentally with the needle.

Anna sat across from her, likewise darning some more lace (funny how they never seemed to run out) but her expression was one of confusion that Phyllis could not help but notice. When she’d first arrived at Downton, Anna Bates had been unnervingly quiet and at times frazzled to the point of distraction. This had eased as the months had passed, and now Anna seemed quite resigned to a state of normalcy but there were times when she’d slip back into that nervous panic Phyllis had first known. 

It was an odd thing, to be sure. But odder still was when Anna started conversation instead of Phyllis. 

“I had an interesting conversation with Thomas just now.” Anna spoke up, and Phyllis sat down her lace for a moment to catch Anna’s wary eye across the table. She knew why people spoke to her about Thomas; their relationship was an enigma and one that was often the subject of idle gossip. 

“Oh?” Phyllis resumed darning her lace. Interesting conversation with Thomas usually meant darker things afoot, “Sounds slightly concerning. He wasn’t unkind was he?” 

“No.” Anna said, and she sounded quite surprised at this, “As a matter of fact he was being incredibly kind. Kinder than I’ve ever known him to be without due reason.” 

Phyllis glanced up again, for she had to agree that Thomas’ acerbic nature did not usually drop unless something truly serious was occurring. The only times Thomas was kind was when he was hurting and at a point of bleak surrender… or around Jimmy. 

And Jimmy was gone. 

“Ms. Baxter, I hope I’m not prying but…” Anna set down her own lace, chewing nervously upon her bottom lip for a moment, “You’ve known Thomas since he was…?” 

“Since he was born, yes.” Phyllis looked away, not caring for the turn in conversation. 

Anna said nothing, and the silence was so heavy in its oppression that Phyllis had no choice but to look back up to make sure all was well. Anna was staring at her, waiting expectantly, and Phyllis had a feeling she knew why. Men like Thomas were made, not born, and Anna had worked with Thomas now for close to fifteen years. She no doubt wanted to know why exactly Thomas was the way he was. But that was not Phyllis’ secret to give away, and even if it was it wasn’t the sort of thing one spoke about idly in a servant’s hall. Rather, it was the kind of secret one only told in the dead of night, locked away in a boot room or pressed against a kitchen pantry door. Certain things were so foul and so harsh that if uttered in daylight they charred the very air they touched and made all food taste sour in the mouth. 

Anna was still waiting in silence. 

“Bitterness is a human invention, Mrs. Bates.” Phyllis said, hoping her hint was enough to suffice Anna’s curiosity. Anna just nodded, looking rather glum as she returned her attention to her lace. 

“I think he needs some cheering up about Jimmy.” Anna mused. 

“I should imagine he does.” Phyllis agreed. 

For a moment they sat in silence, darning and twisting their lace. Every so often they would pause to admire their handiwork, careful to not leave an errant thread behind or miss a seam. 

“Can I ask your opinion on something?” Anna spoke up again after a moment, and Phyllis was pleased to note that her voice now carried a lighter quality to it. 

“Certainly.” 

“Do you think Jimmy liked Thomas?” She asked, and her voice was heavy with meaning. Phyllis made a noise in her throat, thinking it over as she continued to darn. 

That were a very good question and one that could not easily be answered. Jimmy Kent had been a natural flirt, and anyone with eyes could see how he enjoyed causing trouble amongst the kitchen maids and footmen alike. Before Alfred had left for the city, Jimmy had been incredibly mischievous to him; Thomas had been an excellent shield, deflecting any negative attention to Jimmy before Jimmy could suffer punishment from Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes. At first Phyllis had thought this only Thomas’ way of showing affection to his best friend, but then she’d heard whispers amongst the upper staff. Things passed along by the wind in the halls or behind the garden shed after hours. 

_“There he goes again, flirting with Thomas-“_

 _“Lord I hope he doesn’t kiss Jimmy in his sleep again. He couldn’t stand for a second round!”_

She’d strung two and two together and come up with five by the end of it. Thomas’ love for Jimmy was as obvious as the nose on his face if you knew what you were looking for. When it came to Jimmy’s love for Thomas… things were not always as clear. He was doting, and affectionate, eager to make Thomas laugh or capture his attention when others strayed to close… but he’d also been far too quick to pester Ivy before she’d left for America. If he’d loved Thomas back, Phyllis had never known. 

“I’m unsure.” Phyllis admitted, and Anna made a noise of agreement, “I know Jimmy considered Thomas his best friend, but there times- moments when he’d look at Thomas- I can’t say for certain either way.” she shook her head. 

“I understand.” Anna said no more. 

Phyllis might have changed the subject to the Bates’ cottage and their ongoing problem with pesky rabbits that were eating their strawberries and tomatoes, but she heard Thomas’ sharp voice ring out from the hallway along with Daisy’s skittish laugh. 

She paused in her darning, glancing up to see Thomas taking Daisy by the hand and dragging her up the stairwell to god only knows where. Thomas had a strangely determined look upon his face, as if he were about to light something on fire or poison someone with lye. Daisy on the other hand looked downright delighted and was beaming as Thomas held her hand. 

That did not bode well at all. 

“Excuse me.” Phyllis muttered, rising to her feet and leaving her darning upon the table. Anna flashed her a tiny tired smile as Phyllis headed out the door, bound for the stairs and after Thomas where ever he was going. 

 

~*~

Unaware of the fact that they were being tailed, Thomas lead Daisy up to the main floor of the house, opening the door the grand entrance hall with greatest care lest they be discovered by a member of the family. He glanced left and right, checking to make sure the coast was clear, and found that the entire place was dark and empty. The family were no doubt in their beds, mindless of the servants toiling away beneath them. 

No matter. When the cat was away the mice could play. 

“Where are we going?” Daisy asked, quite nervous as she stepped from the safety of the servant’s passage to the dangers of the lush carpet of the upper class. She looked over her shoulder repeatedly, as if fearful Carson would leap out from a shadow and scold her senseless for straying where she ought not to go. Luckily for Daisy, Thomas was an expert at judging where Carson was hiding given the hour of the day. As of this moment, Carson was probably in his office decanting wine and grumbling about change. They were quite safe. 

“Years ago when I stopped indulging in O’Brian’s insanities I had to find a new place to be by myself. I couldn’t smoke in the courtyard anymore without running into her.” Thomas explained as they crossed the entrance hall and made their way up the stairs to the gallery floor. Now Daisy was shaking, Thomas could feel it in his grip, and he cast her a warm smile over his shoulder to soothe her only to find her pale and sweating as she looked about for roaming eyes or lone shadows. 

“Thomas this is dangerous.” Daisy whimpered; he barely kept from rolling his eyes, determined to remember that Daisy was not as adventurous as he and could not be expected to take on the new without some ounce of trepidation. If she thought this was dangerous she was in for a rude wake up call; Thomas practically skipped about on the gallery floor when no one was looking. He and Jimmy had once turned it into a game, to see who could get the farthest without being summoned or caught by a member of family or staff. Thomas held the record simply because he was good at hiding and knew all the best spots. 

He led Daisy down the hall, stopping before a blended door of creamy white that boasted no handle nor fixture save for a single lock to which he inserted the key he’d brought along. 

“Don’t worry.” Thomas murmured back, unlocking the door and opening it to reveal a spiraling iron staircase that lead up and out through a drafty tower, “The family never comes in here.” 

Daisy quickly stepped and Thomas closed the door behind her so that they were thrown into a gloom cut only by the moonlight streaming overhead through thin slatted windows fastened by grimy glass and powdering stone. These places were filthy, far from maintained for daily use, and the crunch of loose rock underfoot echoed slightly as they began to ascend the stairs. Daisy seemed just as nervous going up as she had been in the gallery hall, but Thomas knew the way and was certain that once Daisy saw where they were going she would be quite content to forgive him. 

“Where are we going?” she asked again, this time more curious than nervous. 

“You’ll see.” Was his only reply. 

They reached the top, their way now barred by a wooden door slatted with iron. Thomas unlocked this door as well, and as he opened it Daisy let out a tiny gasp of delight and awe that made him momentarily proud as she stepped out and onto the roof of Downton Abbey. 

“Oh my god-“ She declared, twirling about to see everything in the cool night air, “We’re on the roof!” 

Thomas shut the door, scratching his neck idly as Daisy bounced about, running from one end of the roof to the other as she gazed out over the sides. In the oncoming night, Yorkshire was laid out as a blanket of greenery and moor, purple roads wrapping like ribbon through clotted trees and well kept lawns. From such a height one could easily see the village of Ripon and Thirsk, but the higher one went the more there was to be viewed. Their journey was not yet completed. 

“It gets better.” Thomas declared, taking the lead once again to cross the roof to the base of a turret where an iron ladder was welded onto the side for gutter maintenance. “Follow me.” 

“Even more?” Daisy asked, though she joined him without hesitation at the base of the turret. 

“We’re almost there, come on.” Thomas assured her, and so Daisy took the ladder in each hand to begin to climb. Her skirts were soft as they brushed past his face, the soles of her worn heels clicking upon the iron as she mounted higher and higher. To ease her nerves Thomas went straight behind her, a makeshift safety net should she begin to slip and fall backwards. Daisy did not seem afraid, despite the height, and as she finally reached the top she swung her foot over without preamble to finally view the true top. 

“See?” Thomas could not help but feel proud at the delighted grin upon her face. He slid over the side, perching himself against the slight brick wall as Daisy kept her hair from blowing her face and looked all about. “Worth the climb.” 

“…Oh…” Daisy whimpered, momentarily without words as she turned left and right to survey it all. Stockport lay to the west, York to the north, though both were small specks upon the horizon at the moment. “It’s beautiful.” 

At this she looked to him, adoringly as if he’d made it all for her. Thomas raised a shrewd eyebrow. 

“I can see everything!” She declared, as if this were not already abundantly obvious, “I’m on top of the world!” 

“You’re on top of our world.” Thomas agreed, grinning wryly as Daisy relaxed against the slight brick embankment next to him and continued to look out over the hills and valleys. Farms were like flowers, opening their petals onto pasture and livestock alike. Rivers and bridges were thin trails, weaving together as a spiders web to connect between cities and towns. The true beauty lay not in the aesthetic but in the color. Soft blues from moonlight and dusky purples from the last rays of sunset slowly dipping down in the west. Soon there would be nothing but black, and above them the stars would be perfectly clear. 

“Thank you for bringing me here.” Daisy spoke up again, once more ruining the perfectly good silence with more words. Thomas sighed, wondering why it was that she always felt the need to talk so much. 

“Well you said you wanted some fresh air.” Thomas mused, but he paused as he suddenly saw Daisy beginning to frown. What now? “Are you still down in the mouth about something?” 

“My studies.” Daisy admitted, slightly bitter, “I can’t help it. I feel like I was lied to.” 

“Well…” Thomas opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of how to best break the news of ugly politics to someone as naive and loving as Daisy. If only the world could stay in a swirl of sunshine forever, “When you’re a politician you have to try and keep people’s hopes up. You can’t win campaigns by bringing up the dark sides. You have to keep positive.” 

“But I thought with the Labour Government in power, things would be easier-“ Daisy scoffed at this, folding her arms over her chest and shaking her head. “You probably think I’m stupid for saying that.” 

“No, I don’t.” Thomas assured her, for he would be the biggest filthiest hypocrite in the world to think someone a fool for hoping. He himself had hoped once, had loved once, had desired so many things beyond his reach. Who was he to say that Daisy was wrong or foolish? “I don’t at all. There’s nothing stupid about having hope, Daisy.” 

She glanced at him, and Thomas held her gaze for a moment to allow her to see the full weight behind his words. To her credit she did not back down nor look unnerved. 

“Have you ever had hope?” She asked, her voice softening to the point of a whisper, “For something… hopeless?” 

Thomas clenched his jaw. “Yes I have.” He admitted, and he could not hide the bitter edge in his voice, “Very often. And I’ve been let down just as much.” 

“… What did you hope for?” 

There was no simple answer to that question, no way to explain that Thomas had hoped for the love of another man. Had prayed that Phillip would take him away, had wished that Edward would take strength in his love, had begged on his knees for Jimmy- 

Thomas closed his eyes, pinching them shut to block out the image of Jimmy shouting and railing at him in his bedroom. 

He did not need to dwell on such thoughts. 

“Love.” Thomas admitted. Daisy did not look surprised, “I loved someone very much and I hoped with all my heart that they’d love me back but… it never occurred.” Thomas shook his head, “No amount of hoping can make someone love you when they don’t have it in them. All you can do is try and ease your own burden by putting distance between… or in my case, by being the best friend you can possibly be.” 

Daisy flushed at this, a pink hue creeping into her round cheeks as she gazed at him. Was it just her imagination or was she breathing heavier all of a sudden? Thomas smiled at her, eager to changed the subject. 

“Don’t worry about that Labour Government Daisy.” Thomas said, “Even if they don’t last the year, they’ve more than made their mark…. and the next time a Labour Government gets elected, they can do more and more. Focus on bettering yourself, on your studies… That’ll make you feel like you’re making progress.” 

Daisy nodded absently, so focused on Thomas that she didn’t seem to even register his words save for fleeting moments. Her eyes were glassy, her lips lightly parted. 

Thomas had never seen her so absent, her mind apparently gone as she drifted upon some fit of a daydream. Thomas looked up, and noticed that the sky was now filing with stars. 

An incredible sight, to be sure, and far better than any dream Daisy might be able to conjure. Like crushed glass glittering under the light of a lone candle. 

“Why do you come up here? Really.” Daisy asked, her voice suddenly throaty as if she were catching a head cold. Thomas wondered if the air was doing her a turn; it was rather chilly given the time of year. 

As to why he actually came up here, there was no point to keeping her in the dark. He supposed he could let her in on a secret or two. 

“See that speck on the horizon?” Thomas raised a hand, pointing purposefully to the west where Stockport lay shrouded in a fine winter mist. Daisy looked at once, “That’s Stockport. That’s the village I was born and raised in. My family lives there, though I haven’t heard from them in years. So I come up here and I watch that speck instead.” 

He paused, glancing down at Daisy with a smile. She was enraptured by him, her deep brown eyes slowly turning black with the lack of light. 

He looked back to Stockport. 

“I watch rain pass over it or sun fall on it. Sometimes I can even see fires from field burns or village fairs.” Thomas mused, “I feel like I can…” He gestured about in the air, struggling for the right word, “Keep an eye out, care for my family, even from this distance.” 

He looked back to Daisy again, finding her just as enraptured as ever, “It’s my private way of caring.” 

For a moment, Daisy simply regarded him with wide naive eyes, soaking him in like water to a dry sponge. Then, she leaned up; her hands coming around his neck and her height stretching as she poised on the tips of her toes to kiss him soundly upon the mouth. 

Thomas was flabbergasted, completely thrown as Daisy’s soft, warm lips pressed against his own with such tender care that it was more of a caress than a kiss. His long nose brushed against her soft cheek, the smell of sweat and baked apples thick upon her skin; a light soap hinting from her dark brown hair. Her hands were in his hair, her fingers timidly touching the softened tips of his hair; Thomas could feel the rapid beat of her heart through the pulse in her neck, pressed ever so tightly against his own body as she kept her weight against him. His hands grappled with thin air, useless and confused as he hesitated to put them upon Daisy’s girdled waist. 

What should he do? What on _earth_ should he do? 

This was all very well and good for Daisy, but Thomas was thrown to the wind. If it were Jimmy, Thomas would know exactly what to do. He’d wrap his arms about Jimmy and anchor him so tight that their very bones would merge into one living being. He feared if he did the same to Daisy he might actually harm her. How did one go about holding a girl? 

But it didn’t matter, because even as Thomas’ fingers twitched upon Daisy’s waist, Daisy seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled back. Thomas lips suddenly felt very cold without her pressed against them and the sheer panic blossoming upon Daisy’s face was enough to make her heart wrench. 

He’d done something wrong- he’d given himself away- she must know-! 

“I’m sorry!” 

They both blurted it out at the same time, their voices in unison as Daisy pressed trembling fingers upon her flushed lips and Thomas hesitantly leaned back until his spine pinched against the brick railing of the tower. 

Daisy looked ready to cry- but why had she said she was sorry? Did she think this was her fault? Thomas grimaced, fearful that Daisy considered herself the failure in this situation when she was in all reality the victim. 

His victim. 

“No, no,” Thomas stuttered, shaking his head as he waved his hand emphatically between them, “Daisy you have nothing to be sorry for. You’re beautiful and wonderful, and have _nothing_ to be sorry for. I’m the one that should be apologizing-“ 

Thomas thought he heard a door open beneath them but he could not stop. The words were gushing out of his mouth now as Daisy’s expression slowly slid from frightened to confused. 

“I’m not good enough for you-“ Thomas said, for he knew it was true. He should never have let it go this far, should never have agreed to take Daisy out to town, nor show her Stockport from the roof. He’d lead her on, just like before, and now she’d kissed him in the hopes that he loved her. “I’m sorry if I’ve lead you to believe that I am, but you’d be much happier seeking out a better man, a kinder man-“ 

“You are kind!” Daisy broke across, “You just hide it-“ 

“Then wouldn’t you rather have a man that didn’t have to hide?” Thomas demanded, thinking of William and how he’d been so openly optimistic. Of Alfred, and how he’d been so openly honest, “That didn’t have to come all the way up here to show he had a heart?” 

“No.” Daisy said, and it was with such a simple clear tone of finality that Thomas was momentarily lost for words. He stared at her, agape, and it seemed to flood her with courage as she once more leaned in and pressed her mouth firmly against his own. 

Her lips were warm, sweet, and soothing despite how they burned and pestered him. They were not Jimmy’s, did not hold his charm, and made Thomas sick to his stomach as Daisy every so slowly drew back only to kiss him again, and again. He was going to lose his mind if he didn't come up with something quick- 

And then, in a fit of desperation, an ugly thought dawned upon him, disgusting and cruel:   
_Pretend she’s Jimmy._

And so, in an act of self preservation that put Thomas to great shame, he closed his eyes and desperately tried to pull the image of Jimmy to the forefront of his mind. 

_Jimmy kissing him soundly upon the mouth, his chest heaving as he dared to press them closer, harder, deeper-_

Thomas’ left hand found a waist line, pulling a body tight to him as he tried with all his might to block out the bizarre feeling of a dress beneath his fingers. His right hand came up, the back of his knuckles slowly brushing across a plump cheek bone. He opened his palm wide, cupping a slender neck to entwine in soft downy hair. 

He could pretend it was Jimmy. But just barely.   
And god how he hated himself for it. 

 

Beneath the roof tower, hidden halfway in shadow and completely unseen by the embracing pair, Phyllis Baxter pressed her hand tight to her mouth to keep from making a sound.


	7. Baiting the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For he knew that Bates’ knew. Just as John would always know when Thomas had done something wrong. Because John could see right through Thomas and Thomas could see right through John… and for that reason they would always despise one another. 
> 
> “You sent the letter.” Bates’ said, his voice deadly soft. 
> 
> Thomas did not deny it.   
>  Bates moved like lightning."

Thomas Barrow had done some stupid shit in his life, make no mistake, but nothing rivaled with that of kissing Daisy on the roof of Downton Abbey. He had no excuse, save that he may have temporarily lost his mind.

When he’d returned to his bedroom that night, he’d vomited several times, unable to get the feeling of Daisy’s lips off of his brain. She was like a plague; a very nice, very well mannered plague that threatened him with all things positive. 

The next morning, he’d arose to a very strange new world. 

Daisy was set- nay- determined to make his life more bearable, and so the war of favoritism started. Toast arrived to him first, tea always offered him a hot cup, and every time he looked up there was Daisy offering the sweetest of smiles. Last time he’d thought it all very funny, this time he took it seriously and smiled back at her. 

Daisy wasn’t a child anymore; she understood the precarious nature of courtship downstairs. Not everyone could be as lucky as the Bates. 

The sun did not shine brighter, the air did not smell sweeter, and there was no grand or glorious change to pronounce to the world _“I, Thomas Barrow, have kissed a woman”_ save that the woman in question was now watching and waiting for him to kiss her again. This was easier said than done, simply because Thomas did not _want_ to kiss Daisy again but knew that he really had to if he was going to keep up the facade of courting her. Bugger it all if he knew a thing about courting women; courting men came second nature to him but this bag of cats was unbearable to deal with-! 

So it was that Thomas found himself completely out of his element, sitting at the end of the servant’s table with dinner put away and a book of math equations before him while Daisy attempted to solve them and flirt with him at the same time. Maybe it was just her years under Mrs. Patmore showing, but she really was an excellent multitasker. Thomas smoked, Daisy drank her tea, and as she worked she occasionally glanced up at him with a coquettish grin as if to say _“Shall we go to the roof tonight?”_

Mercifully rain was approaching, and Thomas could safely put her off without sounding too suspicious for now. 

Phyllis sat near the other end of the table, her posture stiff and her eyes keen. She kept checking on Thomas as if wary of his behavior, which he couldn’t understand given he was behaving perfectly normal (save for the fact that he’d kissed a woman and was entertaining the notion of doing it again). She looked from him, to the math book, to Daisy, but said nothing and for that Thomas was grateful. The less questions asked, the better. He certainly had no answers to give. 

The Bates likewise sat at the table, but Thomas paid neither of them any mind. After his horrific revelation regarding Anna, Thomas found that he could barely look at her without becoming sick. He just kept seeing her battered face after the concert, seeing the way Greene had leered at her across the table. It was enough to make him go mad. 

“Right, that’s me done.” Daisy said, sliding her equations over to him for checking. Thomas took her sheet, stubbing out his finished cigarette in a nearby ash tray; she rose up, cracking her back with a slight wince. “I think I’ll go make some more tea.” 

“This math business will wear you down.” Thomas agreed, “It’ll fry your brain if you’re not too careful.” 

Daisy gave him a small smile, though it was far from flirtatious. 

“Lucky for me I already have the brain of a kipper-“ 

“Ah-“ Thomas cut her off, pointing at her with two calloused fingers; her coy grin was back, spreading from ear to ear and making her cheeks flush pink, “I swore I’d give a black eye to anyone who called you stupid- I’ll happily remind you you’re also on that list.” 

She left, tittering. Thomas returned to her equations, and found them far from wanting.   
She was smart. Brain of a kipper, indeed. 

“Is it true that London inspector is coming back tomorrow?” Phyllis spoke up, and for a moment Thomas thought her question was directed at him until he realized she was speaking to Anna instead. Anna was quite wary, her eyes narrowing as she looked up from her darning to Phyllis. 

“How do you know that?” Anna asked, but before Phyllis could answer Daisy was returning with two cups of tea in hand. She sat back down, sliding a cup over to Thomas, and he took it from her with care. She watched him as he revised her math equations, desperate to keep his mind off of the inspector’s visit and on her math. 

Math was simple. Math was straightforward. Math didn’t lock you up for being a deviant homosexual. 

“How’s your hip?” Daisy asked him; Thomas stretched a little in his seat, testing his sutures. 

“Healing.” Thomas said, noting he was still slightly sore but not nearly in as much pain as he’d been a week ago, “Still hurts like hell but at least it’s on the mend.” 

“Just remember I’d be happy to swear I saw that ticket in one piece.” Phyllis was urging the Bates. Anna looked none too sure; John seemed ready to pop a screw. 

God what was this nonsense about a ticket now? Thomas kept an ear out, nervous for any information that might be relevant to the case he was about to lie for. 

Yet before any more information could fall into his lap, Moseley stumbled through the servant’s hall door and cocked his head to Phyllis: “Her ladyship’s on her way to bed.” 

“Right, thank you.” Phyllis sat down her knitting and left, her pace brisk to get her upstairs before her ladyship even made to rang. 

Anna turned to Bates as Moseley left the room, seeming quite unnerved. 

“I hope Ms. Baxter’s not all we’ve got between us and trouble.” Anna mumbled. 

“She’s not.” 

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but the look no Anna’s face had strayed so near distress that the words had fallen from his mouth before he could stop them. Anything to keep her from being upset; anything to sooth her discomfort. Yet instead of soothing her, his words seemed to have unnerved her. Anna looked down at her lap, meek in her distress; Bates turned around in his seat, glaring at Thomas. 

“And what would you know about it?” Bates snapped. 

Thomas did not answer straight away, fumbling instead with his cigarette pack beneath the table in an attempt to calm his warring emotions. “She’s not all you’ve got.” he mumbled. 

“Is there something you want to tell us, Thomas?” Bates demanded, his tone taking on an irritated edge. Daisy bristled in her seat, “Because otherwise spare us your scare mongering-“ 

“Nothing bad will come of this visit, Mr. Bates-“ Thomas said, starting to grow just the slightest bit tired of Bates constantly assuming he was going to throw the cradle on the fire. 

Okay, admittedly he _had_ sent the letter to the police but damnit he was going to make that right. 

“You speak as if you know something for a fact-“ 

“I do, and I’ll thank you not to assume the worst of me-“ 

They were five shies away from an argument now. 

“Oh I’m only going off what I know, and that’s that you are a cad of the darkest degree-“ at this Bates pointed at Thomas and his finger was as damning as a judge’s gavel. Thomas winced. 

“I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Bates.” Daisy spoke up in his defense, and Thomas felt a stab of affection for her as she reached beneath the table to gently take his hand. She paused his fiddling with the pack, her fingers gliding through the crevices of his own so that he was momentarily thrown from the argument with Bates to register just what on earth she was doing. 

Her hand was unnervingly close to things he really did not want her hand to be close to. At all. 

“You’ll have to forgive me, Daisy.” Bates rolled his eyes as he moved again in his seat to return his attentions to Anna, “Thomas is not in my good books. Or any book, really.” 

Thomas had had enough. 

He rose up out of his seat, Daisy’s hand nearly going with him for a second as he re pocketed his cigarette pack and pushed his chair into the table. 

“Probably should stop for the night.” Thomas mumbled to Daisy as he passed behind her, “Your equations look good. Goodnight, Daisy.” 

He left the servant’s hall before she could follow, heading for the stairwell and the long trek up. 

God what was Bates going to think when he lied to the police? Would he be grateful or would he be murderous? Thomas had been so determined to get Anna out of trouble initially that he’d completely forgotten about Bates; had been so absorbed with the wife that the husband had become a thought for the background. In reality, though, Bates was a bigger problem than Anna. 

Anna would go along with a lie and squirrel the truth out of him in private. Bates would stop him dead in public and make sure everyone was watching. 

“Thomas-“ 

He stopped just short of the divide in the stairwell that separate the ascent to the separate sides and turned to find that Daisy had followed him up. She did not have her math book with her; must have run after him to catch him before he was beyond the divide she could not cross. Now a few steps beneath him, he found her flushed and breathing heavily in the moonlight that faded down from a high window overhead. 

“You know Mr. Bates didn’t mean anything by that, right?” Daisy asked. “He’s just worried about the inspector.” 

“It’s no matter.” Thomas said with a wry smile, though he knew for a fact that Bates had meant every word and more, “I’m going to turn this around.” 

“What do you mean?” Daisy asked, “Do you know why the inspector’s coming?” 

Thomas nodded, considering his options. He could tell Daisy or keep her in the dark; in a way he wondered how she’d take it… if she was adult enough to handle the truth. 

He decided to take a leap of faith in her direction and stepped down to come closer to her. She seemed entranced by the movement, the band of color in her face growing as Thomas drew closer. 

“Do you remember when we went to the village the other day?” Thomas asked. Daisy nodded, enraptured as he spoke, “I met the police there.” He explained, “By accident, o’course. Didn’t know they were gonna be there. But I overheard them talking and I managed to listen in. They’re coming here to question _Anna,_ not Mr. Bates.” 

“But why?” Daisy asked, agog. Thomas couldn’t blame her; it was far from Anna’s reputation to be in trouble with the law. 

“They think she did something she couldn’t possibly have done.” Thomas explained, “I made a move on the spot and told the police I knew something about the case, when I don’t. I’m going to get the Bates out of trouble.” 

“But how?” Daisy’s eyes were just growing wider by the second, “What will you do?” 

Thomas gave her a wry smile, knowing he was about to turn her ear, “I’m gonna lie to the police. Tell them a convincing tale and get them off Anna’s back.” 

Daisy didn’t seem so much concerned about the lie as she was about Anna being in trouble: “But what could Anna have ever done to upset the police?” 

Thomas frowned.   
This was going into dangerous waters; he didn’t want to upset Daisy but he didn’t see any other way forward. 

“… Do you remember Mr. Greene? The valet that died?” Thomas asked. Daisy nodded. 

Thomas rubbed his jaw, noting the slightest stubble that was only beginning to form. 

“Greene attacked Anna.” Thomas murmured. Daisy sucked in a breath, “That’s why I was so shaken the other day, I’d just found out myself.” 

“Oh my god!” Daisy whispered, the horror evident in her voice. Thomas could hardly blame her. 

“Turns out the bastard had a history of attacking women.” Thomas muttered nastily, still rubbing his jaw, “So his death looks more like revenge now than an accident-“ 

“But why Anna?” Daisy kept asking. “Why when she’s so kind-“ 

“Kind people can kill just like any other.” Thomas warned. Daisy just scoffed, “Not that I’m saying she did it, all. The police are saying that who ever pushed Greene was shorter than him, and Mr. Bates is tall. They think Anna might have taken revenge; she wasn’t at Downton the day of Greene’s death. But if I can give her an alibi, and say she was here on that day, say that I was working with her on that day, then no one can accuse her of being the murderer.”

 

“You’re so very brave.” Daisy whispered. She was almost disbelieving in it, amazed at the depths he would go to save Anna from an undeserved fate. Thomas suddenly realized how very close they were, how at any given moment Daisy could raise herself up once more to kiss him again on the lips. 

God he hoped she wouldn’t. 

“Save it for later, I still don’t know if this’ll work.” Thomas muttered, looking up the stairwell to the men’s side and finding it empty. He sighed, taking another step up, “I’ll say goodnight-“ 

“Wait.” 

Thomas turned back around. 

Daisy was still looking at him in disbelief. “If you’re found out, you’ll be arrested too.” 

Thomas smiled wryly, wondering what she’d say if she knew that he was under threat of arrest for simply being alive. 

“Cad of the darkest degree.” He volunteered. Daisy tilted her head, her cheeks flushing with affection. 

She took a step up, the another, till she and Thomas were on the same rung; Thomas’ heart leapt in his throat as he saw her rise up on the tips of her toes. 

He knew what was coming, yet despite his mental blockage and emotional protests he found that he could not physically move to step aside. Daisy pressed herself against him, the odor of oranges and nutmeg filling Thomas’ nostrils as she kissed him sweetly upon the lips. It was an odd, fluttering thing, their skins merging if only for a split second so that Thomas did not even have to time to fully register the kiss nor put up an image of Jimmy to make it convincing on his part before Daisy was pulling back with a coy smile. 

“For luck.” She whispered in the dark. 

Their breaths intermingled, Thomas’ smoke and Daisy’s tea coming together to form a new perfume that was half parts repressed and half parts innocent. Half parts exhausted and half parts exhilarated. He searched her face for answers to that small kiss, wondering why she’d initiated it at all if she hadn’t felt to make it longer or more meaningful. But then Thomas considered that Daisy might have wanted to kiss him simply for the sake of kissing him period. That there was nothing she’d desired more than to press herself against him. 

And it moved him. 

People didn’t like to touch him. In the servant’s hall he was avoided like the plague. In celebrations, he was rarely hugged. In moments of lamentation and sorry, he was likewise shunned. It had been a genuine shock to him when Branson had hugged him after their victory over the village men; he’d been too stunned from his beating an hour later to register the swell of emotion at being embraced from all sides, being lifted off the ground by Alfred and helped to the cart by Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. It had been absolutely staggering, to feel hands on his skin and not feel a blow behind it. To simply be held for the sake of support or kindness. 

He craved it. He wanted more of it.   
He was sinfully greedy for that companionship. 

And so he bent his head forward. 

 

Daisy’s hands fluttered nervously to his cheeks, stroking the skin she found there as Thomas chastely pressed his lips against her own. His hands, like the creeping feelers of fragile flowers, reached forward to touch her cheeks and neck. To touch another human being and make a human connection if only for a single moment. 

Daisy seemed to be swooning, as if Thomas’ kiss was something from a fairy book though he knew damn well it was far from his best. Perhaps she was just easily impressed, or perhaps no one had kissed her before. 

Now that he thought about it, had anyone ever kissed her?   
What a pitiful fate. He wouldn’t stand for it. 

Dropping his hands, Thomas grasped her by the waist and pulled her closer; she relaxed into his embrace at once, wrapping her arms fully about his neck. His kiss was growing deeper, losing its innocent edge even as a voice in the back of his head demanded to know just what the _fucking hell_ he thought he was doing? 

_‘Having a good time’_ Thomas heard his own sneering reply. 

_‘You bastard.’_

Bates’ voice in his head made Thomas’ blood suddenly run cold, and without warning he jerked back from Daisy’s lips. He touched his own, praying to god his hand wasn’t visibly shaking. Daisy looked quite surprised if not stupefied to have been kissed so soundly, but as she looked into his eyes she seemed to realize that something dark had passed into Thomas’ mind. 

She reached for his face, he took a step back. 

“… I’ll say goodnight.” Thomas whispered softly. “Shouldn’t kiss you so openly on the stairwell. Someone might see.” 

“Would you mind?” Daisy whispered, slightest trepidation creeping into her voice. Thomas felt a wry smile creeping onto his face. 

“Wouldn’t want to cause trouble for you.” Thomas explained. Daisy looked crestfallen. 

He knew that look, he’d worn it many times. 

He’d worn it when Philip had cast him off for a summer dalliance, when Edward had barked at him in moments of PTSD madness, when Jimmy had walked through Lady Anstruther’s door without sparing him a second glance back. 

Mercifully, Thomas also knew a remedy. 

He took Daisy’s hand in his own, caressing her burnt and battered knuckles as if they were as soft as Lady Mary’s. Bringing her hand between both of his own, he brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them sweetly, making sure to keep his eyes upon her own so that she could see the fault did not lie in her arms. 

A blush exploded onto Daisy’s cheeks, making her look fevered and faint. Her mouth was slightly ajar, her lips swollen from kissing and eager for more. 

_‘Please understand’_ Thomas heard a voice in his head, pathetic and whiny though also his own, _‘I don’t mean to hurt you’._

Daisy sucked in the tiniest breath, as if she’d momentarily forgotten to breath.   
Thomas brought her hand down from his lips, though he still kept it clasped in his own. 

“Goodnight.” He said again, and this time it was final. He let go of her hand, though it still hung in mid air as if Daisy was praying he’d take it up again. He took a step up, then another, still not turning around fully for fear that Daisy would think he was giving her the cold shoulder. 

“…Goodnight.” Daisy replied, her voice shaky with emotion. She was utterly in love, Thomas could see it now. She didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to take her eyes off of him, and Thomas felt incredibly sorry for it. 

She had no idea who she was in love with. She thought him good and kind, thought him selfless and brave. 

She had no idea, and the moment that she found out the truth about him she would be wholly repulsed. 

For a moment they simply stood and stared at one another, two lone figures in the dark waiting to see what the other would do next. 

A minute passed, then another. 

But the bone aching weariness that came from a day on his feet and a night on pins and needles, urging him upward to his waiting bed. His sutures were aching; he needed to lay down before his hip gave out entirely. He turned, casting a glance over his shoulder once or twice as he vanished into the dark of the men’s hall above him. 

He heard Daisy turning, heard her going up her own steps, and inwardly praised that she wasn’t one to lament on stairwells alone. The more sense she kept in this weird relationship of theirs, the better. 

God only knows, Thomas had already lost his fucking mind. 

~*~

 

It was by the grace of a non-existent (or perhaps vengeful) god that both Jimmy and Alfred’s letters came in the post for him the next morning before Mr. Vyner himself appeared with the York detective to question the Bates. Thomas, an expert in spying and sneaking, used the steam wafting from the one of the multiple morning pots of tea to unseal both envelopes and ensure that both stories were accurate, and upon doing so found a personal note from both Jimmy and Alfred waiting for him as well. 

_‘Hope this helps. Sad to hear that the Bates’ are in trouble! Give everyone my best and love, especially Daisy- A. Nugent p.s. Tell Jimmy I’m on me way to France soon. See how he likes that!’_

 _‘Lying to the police before tea time? My favorite kind of day! Will write soon, lots to tell! -JK’_

If Alfred knew Thomas had kissed Daisy on the mouth not twenty four hours prior to his letter arriving, Thomas had a feeling Alfred would have a conniption and attempt to punch Thomas in the mouth. 

As for Jimmy’s note, Thomas folded it up and stuck it inside his breast pocket. That scratchy scrawly writing burned him like a brand, making his chest feel heavy with remorse and regret as he thought of all that had occurred since Jimmy had left. ‘Lots to tell’ he had promised, but really what could he say that would change Thomas’ world? He would hardly be confessing his love, or offering Thomas condolences for his brush with death. Jimmy would probably tell him he was dating some dame with gams like polished ivory and announce the wedding date soon after. Chances were Jimmy would not be marrying her in the woods. 

He ran over his story, his lie, a thousand times in silence, waiting expectantly as he packed the appropriate silver for London and began starting on the crystal. It was a laborious process simply because a trip to London was a dangerous dance where fine crystal and china were concerned and Thomas was nothing if not cautious with his precarious household position. The last thing he needed was Carson hounding him for broken goods, particularly ones that were worth double his yearly salary. He was still trying to make up for the loss the electrotherapy had cost him. 

Though, if this whole affair with Daisy worked out, it would be more than worth it. 

Thomas’ methodical process of wrapping crystal and checking it off the inventory lists with the hall boys was brought to a shuttering pause when he heard the sound of Mr. Vyner’s drawl emanating from the back hallway near Mrs. Hughe’s sitting room. His heart skipped a beat, an ugly icy feeling falling into his stomach as he once more ran over his lie in his head and checked it for loopholes. There were none that he could see, but god what would he give to have O’Brian with him now, listening to his story and double checking just in case. 

He gave the hall boys a much needed break, which sent them scattering to all corners for tea and sweets. Wandering into the hallway by Mrs. Hughes sitting room, Thomas pulled out both Jimmy and Alfred’s letters, the envelopes resealed after his trick with the steam. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Thomas jumped, his sutures screaming in pain momentarily as he whipped around to see Phyllis glaring at him from the doorway to the boot room. She carried a pair of her ladyship’s shoes under her arm, yet to be bagged and packed away, and she looked… angry at him. Why he could not say. 

Well, it might have something to do with the police having returned. Thomas’ stomach clenched painfully tight again. 

“Relax.” He muttered bitterly as Phyllis drew closer to glance at Mrs. Hughes’ closed door, “I haven’t stirred up more trouble.” 

“Not of this kind, anyway.” Phyllis muttered back. Thomas shot her a wary look.   
What was she on about? 

Yet before Thomas could ask her, the sound of heels on stone alerted him to the arrival of Daisy who was watching Mrs. Hughes’ door with nervous trepidation. Ah yes, his partner in crime… she alone knew the cards about to be laid on the table. 

Phyllis went slightly green as she saw Daisy, as if Daisy had somehow done her a personal wrong too. Thomas couldn’t understand it. As far as he knew the only person Daisy had ever wronged was Ivy Stuart and to be frank the little chit had been asking for it by the end of it. 

“Have they gone in?” Daisy asked, her nerves showing in her voice. 

“Just now.” Thomas said, “I’m waiting for the call.” 

“What call?” Phyllis asked, her voice quite sharp and bringing Thomas back to her attention. He glared at her, recalling how she’d so often looked at the Bates’ when she thought no one else had bee looking. 

He had a bone to pick. 

He grabbed Phyllis by the wrist, and before she could so much as utter a cry of indignation pulled her into the boot room. Daisy followed at once, closing the door behind the three of them so that they were cut off from the rest of the house momentarily. 

“Stop dragging me around-!” Phyllis jerked her wrist away, rubbing it gingerly as she set her ladyship’s shoes upon the island table, “You’re worse than your sister-“ 

“Yeah, I doubt that-“ Thomas snapped acidly, “Did you know?” 

“Know what?” Phyllis was growing quite tired of their games, her shoulders sagging as her nerves began to fray. 

“That Greene attacked Anna.” Thomas growled. Beside him, Daisy pursed her lips, hugging herself about the chest as if Thomas’ words made her feel ill. Phyllis’ face dropped, irritation giving way to pure exhaustion as she sighed and put a hand to her temple. She seemed to have a headache.

“So you’ve figured it out.” Phyllis mumbled, not even attempting to lie. Thomas gritted his teeth, a slight stab of rage flooding him as he thought once again of Anna shaking and beaten at the table in the servant’s hall. 

“Yes, I have.” He said, vindictive in his anger, “And I’m going to put a stop to this bullshit. Today.” 

Phyllis did a double take, exhaustion now gone to be replaced by fear. From irritation to weary discomfort, to terror, it seemed her emotions were on a carousel ride today. 

“How?” She demanded, suddenly quite wary. 

Thomas took a step forward, suddenly coming quite close to Phyllis, and it was a mark of her courage that she did not back down nor show fear in her face, “I’m going to lie to the police, tell them that Anna was with me on the day of the murder, and give her a cast iron alibi. Because we both know that Anna could never have attacked Greene even if he was an utter bastard.” 

“I agree but-“ Phyllis stuttered, “What if it backfires.” 

“What if the Bates’ don’t go along with the plan and call you out on the lie in front of the police-?” Daisy piped up, casting a look over her shoulder at the still closed door. She was smart to do so. Anyone could be listening. 

“Then we’ll all three go down together.” Thomas felt he had very little to lose at this point. Though if he were to be arrested for a crime other than sodomy it would be a hysterical turn of events worthy of an Oscar Wilde novel. “If they go down, they will not go down alone.” 

“Thomas-“ Phyllis clenched her teeth, breathing tightly through them. She had something to say, something important, but her eyes flickered from Thomas to Daisy effectively sealing her mouth. “I-“ she stuttered, “Please, be careful!” She finally conceded, her voice thick with warning and meaning, “If the police suspect you of foul play they’ll sink you for anything.” She looked at him plaintively, her intentions clear, “Anything. D’you understand?” 

_Sodomy. Got it. Thank you._

“Don’t worry.” Thomas nodded, he more than understand, “I’ve got a plan.” 

Phyllis did not look soothed. 

“Your plans are usually shite, Thomas.” She mumbled, her ladylike composure slipping as she cursed. Thomas gave her a wry grin. 

The door to the boot room opened, and the three of them looked around to see Mrs. Hughes glaring at Thomas from the doorway. She was irate, Thomas could tell, and the scathing distrust in her eyes made his stomach suddenly feel as heavy as lead. 

She thought he was going to sink the Bates. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mrs. Hughes ground out. “You're wanted in my sitting room.” 

And with that, she turned away, storming back out through the door in a huff of hot air.   
Thomas grimaced, bowing his head. 

“Just a moment, ladies.” Thomas said with airy finality as he left both Daisy and Phyllis behind, “This won’t take long.” 

Mrs. Hughes held the door to her sitting room open like one would a jail cell, and when Thomas entered she closed it swiftly behind them effectively sealing him in with the Bates and the inspector. Worst of all, Carson was there, and looking quite disturbed they the sudden turn of events. 

John Bates was glaring at Thomas with all the ferocity of a provoked bear, ready to jump out of his chair and throttle Thomas as soon as he got the chance. Anna just looked terrified, her hands clasped nervously in her lap as she shook and waited for the fall. Mr. Vyner was at ease though he still looked terribly grouchy to be there at all, and the bumbling Yorkshire detective was simply smiling at Thomas as if they were about to sit down to a cup of tea and chat about the weather. 

Thomas clasped his hands behind his hand, Jimmy and Alfred’s letters safely stowed in his breast pocket. 

“Mr. Barrow.” My Vyner began, “We spoke in the village, if you’ll recall. You gave me reason to believe you have more information to share on the case of Mr. Greene?” 

“I do, yes.” Thomas said, keeping his voice as calm and steady as possible. A calm voice was key in a lie, as was his ability to hold Mr. Vyner’s gaze. He could do both, so long as he kept his mind clear and steady. Internally, he ran a mantra like a monk at prayer: 

_Get Anna out of trouble, get Anna out of trouble, get Anna out of trouble-_

“Then will you please share it?” 

“Happily.” Thomas said, and without further ado, he lied he ass off: 

“Mrs. Bates was not in London on the day or Mr. Greene’s death.” 

“What?” Vyner snapped, his normally stoic composure faltering to reveal confusion for the tiniest second. Taking advantage of catching Vyner off guard, Thomas poured forward, giving neither of the Bates’ a chance to deny his claim, nor Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson the moment to process his lie. 

Because everyone in the room now knew he was lying. Everyone, save for the police. 

“Mrs. Bates was not in London on the day that Mr. Greene died.” Thomas began, unclenching his hands from behind his back to reach into his vest pocket, “She was at Downton, performing her duties as ladies maid to Lady Mary. I was there on that day, as were James Kent and Alfred Nugent who used to work alongside Mrs. Bates. They’ve both sent statements for your case-“ and with that Thomas handed over his letters to Mr. Vyner, who took them and opened them at once. 

For a moment there was absolute silence as Vyner first read Jimmy’s letter and then Alfred’s. He looked from one to the other, eyes narrowing as he scanned them for slip ups. 

But there were none, and Thomas knew it. Could practically recite the letters by heart at this point. 

He clasped his hands behind his back again to hide the fact that they were beginning to tremble. He had a feeling Mrs. Hughes would be able to see it, might notice the tension mounting in his shoulders. 

“Well.” Vyner grumbled, looking quite put out and even exhausted as he refolded both letters and handed them over to the eager Yorkshire detective. “This changes things quite a lot. We were under the impression Mrs. Bates had possibly attacked Mr. Greene-“ 

“That’s ridiculous!” Mrs. Hughes cried out in anger from the doorway. 

“Mrs. Hughes, if you please-“ Mr. Vyner snapped, a clear sign the pair of them had been arguing all day. 

“That’s completely out of character for Mrs. Bates.” Bates shot back, ready to defend his wife to the end. 

Vyner looked to Thomas, his eyes narrowing. 

“Have you known the Bates long, Mr. Barrow?” Vyner asked. 

“Yes. Fifteen years.” Thomas said. 

“And what would you consider Mrs. Bates character to be?” 

Thomas swallowed. 

“She is the soul of kindness.” Thomas said, careful not to let the sudden silence unnerve him. He chose in that moment to instead focus on the memory of Anna consoling him after Sybil’s death. How she’d held him so tenderly as if they were friends instead of acerbic co-workers. “She is far from violent, and deserves a great deal more of respect that she’s been given.” 

“And Mr. Bates?” 

“… He is not a violent man.” Thomas lied, trying hard to keep from thinking of how Bates had slammed him so forcibly into the wall upstairs. “And I should hardly think it a crime to love your wife.” 

“And would you consider yourself a friend to the Bates, Mr. Barrow?” Vyner sneered, unmoved by his words. It did not matter; they were hardly for him. 

“No.” Thomas admitted, “I am their co worker. But I can easily give a character testimony. For both of them.” 

“I’ll want it from you.” Vyner warned, “Along with a witness statement dictating your account of the events on the date of Mr. Greene’s death-“ 

_‘Already done, you moron’_ Thomas thought with snide glee at the statement he’d penned in his room not even an hour ago. It matched Jimmy and Alfred’s story perfectly. 

“I’ll happily give them both.” Thomas said. Vyner nodded, taking the letters from the Yorkshire detective and slipping them into his breast pocket. 

“Well.” Mr. Vyner stated, still thoroughly put out, “It seems we have no more to say on the subject. We’ll leave it there for now… but I don’t think we’ll be calling again.” 

“Mr. Vyner.” Thomas jerked his head, turning away before Vyner could call him back and ask any more questions. There was a sudden elation spreading through him, an incredibly powerful feeling of triumph as if he’d somehow stoned down Goliath with a slingshot. It was as if a warm light basked upon him, crowning him in a halo he’d never before known- 

But all of that emotion was scattered to the wind when Thomas saw the look on the Bates’ face. 

John and Anna both were staring at him with such contemptuous rage that it was a miracle of science they had not leapt from their chairs to pursue with with torches and pitchforks. They were afraid of him, angry at him, and wanted him gone. They did not trust him, did not understand his lie, and were terrified of what would come next even though Mr. Vyner had pronounced his business with them momentarily concluded. 

Mrs. Hughes was staring at him as if she did not know him; as if he were a stranger who had callously forced his way into her sitting room and promptly smashed all her good china. 

Mr. Carson was simply flabbergasted, appalled at his gaul and his ability to lie so convincingly to the police. Appalled.. but not surprised. Carson had never thought much of his character anyways. 

And suddenly Thomas could not breath. 

He left the sitting room at once, not even bothering to close the door behind him as he exited down the hall past the boot room in a rush. He did not know where to go, where to find refuge- the courtyard was packed with luggage being loaded for carts and the upstairs was full of wedding guests. The servant’s hall was lined with people waiting for orders, the kitchens were likewise a mess- 

Thomas did the only thing he knew to do, he made a bee line for the pantry so normally locked by Mrs. Hughes’ keys and hid himself among the jars of spices and jams. 

He was panting, his heart thundering in his chest; he could not bear the shame of it. 

They’d been frightened of him, all four of them had thought Thomas ready to sink the Bates for a crime they hadn’t committed. There was no redemption to be found, no halo waiting for him with goodness done and Vyner seen off. He’d thought that he could find reprieve in Anna’s saving. Instead there had only been shallow disgust, and a strange sneering quiet that seemed to insist, _“Well what did you expect? He is a cad of the darkest degree.”_

_‘I just wanted to help.’_ bleated a pathetic voice in his head, like one of David Baxter’s newborn lambs. _‘I just wanted to help.’_

Mrs. Patmore’s voice drifted back to him from so long ago: _“Being helpful is not what you’re known for.”_

Thomas felt his knees give out. He sank onto a crate of oranges, his head between his knees as he drew in pathetically short breathes. 

The door the pantry opened, and Thomas jerked up in a fright ready to defend himself from an violent Bates or an irate Mrs. Hughes, only to find Daisy instead. She closed the pantry door quickly behind her, cutting off the loud conversation from the kitchens beyond, and turned to look at Thomas with shining delight. 

“Did it work?” She asked in hope, “I just saw the detective leave!” 

“Yes…” Thomas said, his voice quite hoarse from emotional strain, “Yes, it worked.” 

Daisy beamed at him. “So the police will leave them alone now?” 

“I think so, yes.” 

Daisy’s smile slipped; Thomas looked away, breathing shallowly through an open mouth as he chose to stare at an innocent sack of flour straight in front of him. 

The floor creaked beneath Daisy’s feet; she took a hesitant step forward, then another, finally crouching down to sit beside him on the crate of oranges. Their thighs were pressed together, hardly enough room for the both of them on the meager ledge. Still she sat and stayed, and though Thomas could only see her out of his peripheral vision he could tell she was deeply concerned. 

“Why aren’t you happy?” She asked, her tone sweet in its sympathy. “This is a good thing. You’ve done something wonderful-“ 

No one had spoken to him like this since his mother. Not even Mrs. Hughes. That sweet, lilting tone that swore he could do no wrong- Thomas couldn’t stand it. He drew in another shuddering breath. 

“Their faces…” The words fell past his lips before he could stop them, curb them, “When they… when I… their faces.” 

“What?” Daisy asked, and Thomas flinched as he felt her put a hand upon his back, taught with misery and shame, “What did they do?” 

How could he explain to her, convey to her the nightmarish world that he lived in? He glanced at Daisy and found her waiting, concerned and fearful. Unafraid of him so much as the situation, as if thinking that anything able to rattle him could surely shave the eaves of the house down around their ears. 

“They thought I was going to do something awful.” Thomas’ throat clenched with a sudden wave of ugly emotion and he looked away to glare at the sack of flour again, “They were preparing for it. They expected it. That’s what I am to these people. A vice.” 

“That’s not true, they were scared Thomas.” Daisy soothed, her fingers running up and down his shoulder blade, following the hem of his vest, “They were scared, that’s what you saw. Fear-“ 

“They were scared of _me.”_ Thomas whispered. 

“They were scared of being sent to prison-“ Daisy corrected him, but he shook his head. She meant well, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. 

A sudden hand upon his cheek caused him to jump with fright, and he heard Daisy suck in a tiny gasp as she instantly dropped her hand. A nervous beat of silence later, she re-steeled herself and placed her hand back upon his cheek to turn his face. 

There, in her eyes, that warmth shining through Thomas so admired. Like a burning light that could not be extinguished. 

“Thomas.” She whispered his name in vestige as if she were calling out to a ghost in the dark, “Do you really think they hate you so much?” 

For a moment Thomas considered lying.   
But he’d already lied far too much that day. 

“…Yes.” He finally said, his admittance ugly and cold in the raw light of the pantry. Daisy did not seem shocked, which Thomas hadn’t expected. Instead, she was growing mournfully sad. There was (mercifully) no pity in her gaze. Merely a shared sadness, which Thomas could abide with greater ease than sympathy. 

She leaned forward, but there were no kisses to be found upon her lips. Instead she simply touched his temple with her forehead, nuzzling him a little in a moment of shared silence. 

Christ is must be bad if it could make Daisy hush up for two seconds. 

“I don’t hate you.” She whispered into his ear. 

_‘But you will’_ a nasty voice warned deep inside. 

“And neither do they.” she added after a moment of reflection, though he likewise did not believe her there either, “and I’ll prove it to you one day.” 

“…How.” He muttered, hardly daring to believe such a feet possible. 

And then, her lips were upon his cheek. 

This was different. This was not a kiss. This was a comfort.   
And Thomas had never been comforted in such a way before. 

It unnerved him. It rattled him. It made it difficult to breath as Daisy’s other hand slowly crept up his arm to squeeze his bicep. There was a warmth in her touch he had not expected, and now that it was given to him he had no idea what to do with it as she kissed him again and once more. 

He was a pauper with gold dumped into his lap, coins bouncing off his rags to land near his blistered and broken feet. A starving desert beggar suddenly flung into a cool pool of sweetest water to drink and drown in. 

A shadow moved upon the floor. 

Thomas jerked, his eyes narrowing at that shadow as he glanced up at the pantry door. Daisy looked around, her lips wetted from her kisses. 

Thomas waited for the door to the pantry to open; it remained closed. Whoever had been at the door was gone, leaving them uninterrupted. But why? 

“What?” Daisy whispered, looking from Thomas to the pantry door. 

“…Someone was there.” Thomas said. He rose up from the crate of oranges and Daisy followed after him, hastily wiping her hands upon her skirts. There was a weird edge about her now, a sudden clinginess that had not been there before (or perhaps he’d simply chosen to ignore it). She touched his arm, the barest tips of her calloused fingers rubbing against the starched fabric of his heavily ironed uniform. At first, it was annoying and he almost wanted to tell her to stop. But then her fingers spaced out and came to rest upon the small of his back. It was incredibly comforting to be touched in such a way. To be cared for, consoled. 

Once again, a greediness rose up within him.   
But even so, it was too dangerous to kiss Daisy here. Anyone could walk in and see. 

“We’ll continue this later.” Thomas said, his voice tense with suppressed emotion. All his life it had been a battle of wills, an intense war to keep his emotions suppressed until a time when he could release them without fear of prison. It was the same now, the same nervous determination to keep from being punished simply for being human. The only difference now was that it wasn’t prison Thomas feared. It was Carson. 

Or Hughes. Or Patmore. Or anyone, really. 

“Do you promise?” 

He looked down at her, found her waiting in trepidation, and smiled tenderly. No one had ever looked at him in such a way. Not even Philip. As if the whole world revolved around his own axis. As if he were the deciding factor of all things great and small. No day complete without his input. 

It made him feel important; special. He could not deny that allure. 

He leaned down, and smiled as she lifted her cheek for him to kiss. Diverting his path, he simply pressed his mouth close to her ear so round and small, and whispered: “I promise”. 

He felt her shudder and pulled away. 

~*~

 

That afternoon, Thomas went the extra mile.   
He took several pills. 

The liquids had been foolish endeavors, he knew that now, but Dr. Clarkson had examined the pills just as much as he had the liquids, and had made no comment on them. This, he prayed, was a sign they were not lethal. If combined with Daisy’s attentions, they just might work. Just might numb him enough to forget that Daisy was not Jimmy. That Daisy was not anything he desired at all other than a very good friend and a partner with social chatter and math equations. It was like substituting water for wine, attempting to make a meal out of flour alone. No spices, no jam, no anything to bring flavor or contrast. Daisy was not Jimmy, could never be Jimmy. No one could ever be Jimmy but Jimmy- as was his main problem and contention. He could never have Jimmy, he could only ever want Jimmy, and so he was stuck wishing for death before his time to die. Willing to numb himself if only to make this whole process a little easier. 

He could make Daisy happy, could make any woman happy really. All it required was for him to lie, continuously, without falter or fail… and to numb himself from the pain. 

And so, the pill trials commenced. 

Careful of any side effects he might incur, Thomas took the pill bottle with him when he traveled back downstairs. On the off chance that they killed him, he wanted the pill bottle on him, so that Dr. Clarkson or whoever the fuck was going to examine his corpse would know exactly how and why he had died. If these pills could kill him, they could likewise kill another. Some other poor bastard in his shoes, wallowing through the streets of London with a girl he did not care for on his arm. 

He didn’t want to believe the pills could kill him, he didn’t want to die if he could live and at least attempt happiness of some shallow form, but he had to admit that the risk was there. He was nothing if not thorough in his planning (at least when he did it right). 

He returned downstairs, careful to avoid Phyllis, Hughes, Carson, or either of the Bates. It was like the year after the incident with Jimmy where he suddenly had to play a violent game of cat and mouse in the halls just to make it to supper. He hid in the kitchens, because Daisy was there and Daisy made him feel safe; he used the excuse of inventory and last minute packing to keep Mrs. Patmore satisfied, and she seemed quite grateful for his attentions as Daisy made them both a cup of tea and stood between them regarding the list. The wedding cake was by far the most extensive thing to prepare and it had already been sent ahead to London in a specially refrigerated motorcar. Mrs. Patmore despised this, despised anything to do with the future really, and kept banging on as if they were going to have to make another cake entirely once they got to London proper. To sooth her, he made a backup plan on the off chance that something awful did happen to the wedding cake when he knew for a fact that it was going to arrive safely and Mrs. Patmore was worrying for nothing. 

This whole charade of cake-banter and tea-sipping might have gone on till supper had Thomas’ luck at hiding held out just a little more. 

But when had his luck ever held out for anything. 

“Thomas.” 

He looked up, his attentions momentarily ripped from the inventory list and Mrs. Patmore’s nagging to find John Bates standing in the doorway of the kitchen with Anna at his side. Both looked to be in foul moods, their jaws set and their fists clenched. 

A sudden swooping sensation made Thomas’ legs feel like jelly as he gripped the island counter and fixed Bates with the calmest smile he could manage. 

It was poor at best. 

“I wondered if I might have a word.” Bates said, stepping into the kitchen; his cane tapped on the stone floor, a soft clicking sound like the wary reminder of a grenade about to go off. Mrs. Patmore didn’t seem bothered, she moved off to harass her scullery maids, but Daisy was un eager to leave Thomas’ side, and he noticed that her fingers were clenching tightly around the handle of her fragile tea cup. 

Was she afraid for him? He was almost touched. 

“I’m a little busy at the moment, Mr. Bates.” Thomas said, tapping his inventory with jittering finger. He tried for pleasant, he tried for unconcerned, but all planning went right out the window as Bates leaned in ever so slightly and said, “It’s rather important.” 

The way he said it. As if he could filet the flesh from Thomas’ bones just by uttering the words. It made his skin crawl, reminded him sickeningly of his father and how he had so often threatened Thomas for being weak or worthless. 

_“Don’t test me, boy.”_ his father had whispered menacingly in Thomas’ ear. 

_‘Don’t test me, boy.’_ Bate’s eyes seemed to say. 

“No.” Thomas said, the only reply, the only word he could summon in the face of such a look. The simple wall, the concrete barrier that kept him safe, and the beast at bay. 

But how long would it hold? 

Bates leaned in, his face coming dangerously close to Thomas’ own, so that they could suddenly have a private conversation despite being in the middle of a lively kitchen. The only one who might be able to hear would be Daisy, and she seemed quite frightened at the moment, unsure of what to do or say. Thomas couldn’t blame her. 

“Thomas,” Bates murmured, his voice deadly soft, “Get in the courtyard or god so help me I’ll drag you there.” 

“Then drag me there.” Thomas replied. 

Bates glared at him, murderous. Those honey eyes were like fire gleaming into his own. 

“Um…” Daisy spoke up, nervously tittering as she set her tea cup down upon the island counter, “Maybe… you should… wait. Until you’re not angry.” 

Such bravery. Thomas would have commended her if he could. Bates did not look at Daisy as he replied, his eyes still locked on Thomas’ own waiting for a weakness to rip him asunder. 

“I’ll be waiting a very long time.” Bates said. Daisy had no answer for that. 

Bates leaned in, Thomas prepared himself for the blow he knew was about to come. 

“… Wanna put another dent in the wall, Mr. Bates?” Thomas whispered. He didn’t even know why he said it. He couldn’t look Bates in the eye. 

Bates clenched his fist around his cane, the wood creaking threateningly at the onslaught of fierce pressure. 

 

“T-Thomas!” 

The voice was sharp and frightened, jerking Thomas, Bates, and Daisy from their reverie to see Phyllis in the doorway beside Anna who had not even turned to greet her, who was still glaring at Thomas and waiting for her husband to make his move. 

Phyllis looked ready to break in a nervous sweat, her hands noticeably trembling as she gestured from Thomas to the hallway beyond. 

“Will you help with with… with the valise?” Phyllis asked, “I can’t manage on my own it’s far too heavy.” 

He knew an avenue out when he saw one. 

“Of course, Ms. Baxter.” Thomas said, and he set down his inventory list upon the island counter to step around Daisy and Bates entirely. 

“I thought you said you were busy with the inventory.” Bates leered, turning around so that the tip of his cane ground in the stone. 

“I finished with it.” 

“When?” 

“Just now.” 

He passed right by Anna, not even daring to meet her eye, and headed off with Phyllis towards the boot room. At any second, Thomas expected Bates to follow after him and slam him into the wall, the floor, anything solid and unyielding. His paranoia spiked, and he could not help but look over his shoulder several times for fear that they were being followed. Neither of the Bates had made after them. The minute they crossed the threshold, Phyllis shut the door behind them both and leaned against it as if they’d run a race across the Mohave. 

“Oh my god.” Phyllis groaned, “Mr. Bates looked ready to skin you alive.” 

She pulled way from the door, running a hand over the back of her neck as she moved to the wall and perched herself upon the counter of a weather beaten cabinet. “My hands are shaking.” She said, showing them to Thomas. 

He smiled, reaching out and touching one so that he could still her fingers. Her hands were quite cold. 

“Well, I think-“ 

With a resounding crash the door to the boot room burst open and Thomas’ heart leapt into his throat with sudden cold terror as John Bates came storming through with Anna right behind him. Thomas made a move, eager to put ground between them, anything really; the island would do for now. Suddenly Thomas was in the funny position of being more afraid than Phyllis, who in a change from habit was not cowering like a leaf in the corner. Instead she was looking meekly between Bates and Thomas, as if aware of what would now inevitably fall and already in full acceptance of it. 

Well how quaint for her! Thomas supposed bitterly that this was like a holiday to her; watching Thomas fight with Bates up close. Really he ought to start charging people money for tickets; ring side seats available! Throppins for bets! He’d heard of people baiting bears at the Tower of London for money; how the crowd would jeer as the bear was tested and tormented over and over again until it lost its mind and killed its heckler. Thomas was reminded brutally of his own situation: Bates he bear and he the heckler. The bear had had enough; the heckler had no where to run. 

Bates closed the door, the clicking of the latch sounding more like the slamming of a jail cell as all the color began to drain out of Thomas’ face. 

It was one thing to argue with Mr. Mason when he wasn’t ready; it was another thing entirely to argue with John Bates. 

John Bates was hot tempered and hard headed. John Bates did not play nice nor fair. Thomas had known from the very minute, the very second, that John Bates had limped through the back door just who he was and what he was capable of. Shoddy leg be damned, John could take your face and ram it through a wall make no mistake. As a matter of fact, he’d already done as much to Thomas. There was still a crack in the plaster on the upstairs wall where Bates had rammed him so many years ago. He had a feeling by the end of the day there’d be an identical crack in the plaster of the boot room. Perhaps this was a game they could now play: John slamming Thomas into walls all around the house. 

But it was much more than that. 

John had a way of saying things that got underneath Thomas’ skin. That made him crawl with discomfort. He had a feeling John knew this, that John had always known this- funny that the one time John’s words had had zero effect on him was when he’d slammed Thomas into the wall. He hadn’t frightened Thomas then, with his fists curled at his throat, simply because Thomas understood violence from older men and knew what to expect. But when John opened his mouth in the servant’s hall, making a passing bite or commentary… every time (every single time) it got underneath Thomas’ skin. 

Thomas knew why, deep down. He knew why John got to him, and what it meant; he tried to ignore it. Tried to hide from it as best he could… but it was impossible when John was so close and glaring at him. He was weak, he was tired, and his hip hurt so badly. 

He knew, in that moment, that he was going to lose the fight. Whatever head thrashing Bates was about to throw, it would be nothing compared to the verbal assault, and that would be what damned him. Suddenly Thomas’ hip wound throbbed, and he realized he’d been leaning heavily into the handle of a drawer. He jerked back, scowling, only to be met again with Bates’ violently angry face. 

Thomas made a step for the door; Bates blocked him off. 

“Don’t you dare try and break away now-“ Bates growled. Thomas stepped back at once. There could be no hiding from the fact he’d tried to run. It made him look like a coward but Thomas didn’t care. Labels could go hang themselves- Thomas wanted nothing more than to get as far away from John Bates as possible. 

“Break away from what-“ Thomas tried, but his voice was weak and his resolve weaker. He ran a hand absently over his face; if only he could get to the sanctuary of his room. 

“Where are the valises you couldn’t manage Ms. Baxter?” Bates gestured with his free hand; Thomas blurted the only thing that came to mind, speaking before Phyllis could. So long as he could control the situation, he could control his emotions. The less John knew the better; the less John saw the better. 

“I managed them.” 

“Where?” 

Thomas looked about, and with sudden sinking dread he realized that all the valises in question were already upstairs with the family in their preparation for their trip to London. He’d been caught red handed in a lie. Again. Always by John Bates _(Why always John Bates? Why?)._ So much for controlling the situation. Now John knew without a doubt that Thomas had been attempting to get away from him. Damnit why had he agreed to come into this boot room with Phyllis? 

_‘No small rooms! No small rooms, you moron!’_ his internal monologue shrieked. 

But now it was Anna’s turn to speak, and that if anything was worse. 

“Why did you do it?” She demanded, her lilting voice cracking from the pressure of her fear and anger. Thomas could not bear to look at her; he looked instead towards Phyllis but the shame in her face was once again far too much to bear. Thomas looked at the ground and felt like a child. He looked at the ceiling and felt like an idiot. There was no where to look but at the Bates. To avoid it, Thomas turned around, leaning an arm against the side cabinet and refusing to look at anything at all. There were several tiny jars of shoe polish, water wax and such. They were out of order. Thomas reached out and instinctively straightened them. Made them to look nicer. 

All day long, organization, hard work, lists and tallies. It made him think of the drawers in his family’s clock shop. Of the screws and bolts. Of the way that his father had compartmentalized it all. Thomas wished he could do the same suddenly; just shut the world out and make a massive compartment full of things that he could label and hide away. Such as his memories for example: of the way it felt to sit outside the Bates’ sitting room window and listen to them talk to one another so loving and sweet. 

“What did those letters say-?” The quivering fear in her voice made Thomas feel sick to his stomach. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take deep calming breathes. 

“Thomas answer me!” Anna cried out, bleating like a sheep in pain when Thomas still kept silent; Thomas winced, “You know what it’s like to be scared for your future-!” 

Fear, utter fear. Yes Thomas knew exactly what it felt like. The terror of going down to the servant’s hall the morning after kissing Jimmy in his sleep. The fear of facing the inevitable. 

The fear Anna must have no doubt faced when she sat down next to _fucking_ Greene. 

Thomas began talking; anything to shut her up. He couldn’t stand the sound of her voice in pain. Not when he’d worked it out; not when he knew. 

“When I was in the village with Daisy I saw the police and overheard what they were here for.” Thomas began in a rush, “I was able to telegram both Jimmy and Alfred, and ask for their help as a personal favor-“ 

“But you _weren’t_ here that day! And neither were Alfred nor I!” Anna rode over him, practically wailing at this point. He had a feeling if he looked at her she would be crying. He’d never wanted to make her cry, god help him. 

“You lied! You lied to the police and you made Alfred and Jimmy lie too?! Why?!” 

“To make things right.” Thomas tried, but his voice was losing resolve. What the hell could he do to make any of this right? He couldn’t kill Green, the fucker was already dead. He couldn’t take back the letter he’d sent to the police, though god he wish he could. 

“Our past quarrels are small beef compared to the trouble we’ll all be in if the police find out you lied to them-“ 

“That’ll never happen.” Thomas tried to assure her, but even still he couldn’t look at her. Not when he could hear the quivering in her voice and knew she was crying, “Everyone in the house will back the tale if it keeps you two out of prison-“ 

And at this, he had to turn, had to make his point. He looked over his shoulder and found with a stab of guilt that Anna was indeed crying. Her face was streaked, her cheeks splotchy in a blush. Bates looked murderous, Anna’s tears spurning new levels of hatred within him where Thomas was concerned. 

“Anna they were here to prosecute _you!”_ Thomas cried out, angry for her if anyone, “You! Do you realize that?! It had nothing to do with John, they knew he wasn’t in London-“ 

Did he just call Bates ‘John’? Good lord something was wrong with him. 

“But why did you do it when you hate Mr. Bates?!” Anna demanded, her lip quivering wildly now, “When you hate me-!” 

“I don’t hate you-“ He admonished her at once, for while Anna had been annoying as hell at times he’d never flat out hated her and didn’t think he could. 

“But you hate Mr. Bates-!” 

“I don’t-“ 

“Don’t deny it!” She cried out, throwing a finger at him in clear judgement. Thomas winced, looking away, “Don’t deny it when it’s in every dirty word you fling at him!” 

“I’m sorry, but why are you fighting me on this?!” Thomas spat, eager to stay away from the subject of John as long as possible when he knew how it would end, “Do you want to go to prison for a murder you did not commit?!” 

“I don’t want you to lie to the police- or drag me into that lie-!” Anna wailed, fresh tears spilling down her face. 

“Or drag Alfred and Jimmy into it-“ Bates growled. 

“Both of them were well aware of the risk they were taking.” Thomas scoffed. 

Alfred had been downright eager to help the Bates.   
Jimmy had just been eager to lie to the police. 

_(Ever the one for mischief,_ Thomas thought sweetly) 

But thinking about Jimmy now was a very bad idea for it would only lead to Thomas becoming emotional and _that_ was something he had to avoid at all costs in front of John Bates. It was one thing for Phyllis to know he was cracked and damaged. It was another thing for John to know. John, like Carson, existed on a level Thomas could not abide. If they knew even a tenth of what went on in his mind, Thomas was certain he’d be thrown out on his ass without a reference. 

“And you?” Bates demanded angrily, “Have you ever considered the risk you were taking- or were you so eager to be the hero that you forgot you were committing a felony offense-“ 

But Thomas’ thoughts were too close to Jimmy and the word ‘felony’ set off a string of images in his head. Of Phillip’s letters burning in the hearth, of Pamuk sneering at him from a darkened hallway, of Dr. Clarkson screaming at him from behind his desk, of Jimmy- 

Jimmy. 

“I commit a felony offense every day I live and breath!” Thomas snarled, and his tone was filled with such malice that Bates’ eyes narrowed instinctively as if he was ready for Thomas to go to fisticuffs. Thomas held it back, but just barely, turning away. 

“Forgive me if I found the plunge easy to take.” Thomas said, and he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

But as Thomas looked around his eyes fell first onto Phyllis Baxter, and Moseley’s words from before suddenly floated into his mind. Phyllis was resolved in her silence, was going to stand there and take blow after blow for Thomas’ sake. 

And Thomas could not abide that. 

“Besides.” Thomas mumbled, gesturing to Phyllis whose eyes widened, “I had to defend my friend.” 

“What do you mean?” Anna asked quickly, “Is Ms. Baxter in trouble too?” 

“Yes.” Thomas said, even as Phyllis began to shake her head, opening her mouth- he rode over her, “They thought she knew more than she did. I thought she knew more than she did-“ Thomas looked down, a sizable knot forming in his throat. “And no one would sympathize with her situation, despite it being very sympathizable… so I had to step in to make things right-“ 

“Thomas you don’t have to-“ Phyllis blurted out. 

“Yes. I do.” Thomas said, and the resolve in his words was so strong that an actual blush began to creep across Phyllis’ cheeks. He’d seen that blush before, in the bathroom when he’d put his hand on the door to keep her from leaving before he could tell her the full truth. In her eyes he saw his sister Margret. In her eyes, he saw himself as Margret had seen him. 

What would Margret say if she could see him now? Would she even claim him for her brother? Her twin? Hot guilt flooded his stomach, shame licking at his insides till he felt like he was standing in a furnace. 

“… I did something I shouldn’t have.” Thomas said to the silent room. To the universe at large, “Something awful.” 

“You were out of your mind with fever-“ Phyllis broke across. 

“It was no excuse.” Thomas would hear none of it, shaking his head as he looked away. 

“You were fevered, and delusional.” Phyllis begged, “You didn’t do it in malice, you did it in desperation-“ 

But Thomas just kept shaking his head and Phyllis voice trailed away. The silence swelled and swelled, and Thomas pinched his eyes shut as he kept his head bowed. 

For he knew that Bates’ knew. Just as John would always know when Thomas had done something wrong. Because John could see right through Thomas and Thomas could see right through John… and for that reason they would always despise one another. 

“You sent the letter.” Bates’ said, his voice deadly soft. 

Thomas did not deny it.   
Bates moved like lightning. 

Phyllis let out the tiniest shriek, her hands flying to clap over her mouth as John flew forward (casting his cane aside) and grabbed Thomas with both hands to slam him hard into the wall of the boot room. Stars burst hot and white before Thomas’ eyes, momentarily blinding him as a throbbing pain exploded in the back of his skull. 

“You bastard-!” Bates snarled; but words were pouring from Thomas’ mouth now, carrying on with their conversation as is Bates had not physically attacked him. 

“Phyllis is my friend, and she was drug into this because of me. Her reputation was suffering because of me-“ Thomas babbled, his voice slightly choked around Bate’s meaty fists. 

“It wasn’t a conscious decision, Mr. Bates!” Phyllis was begging, her voice high with fear, “He didn’t do this of his own free will- he was mad-!” 

“Stop pretending I’m innocent, Phyllis-“ Thomas spat around Bates’ hands, eyes locked with the bear before him. The relationship between murderer and victim was an oddly intimate thing. Here lay the man that would bring about Thomas’ destruction. He was certain of it. 

“Stop throwing yourself on the sword!” She cried out, absolutely livid with his stubbornness by this point. 

“I’d throw myself on a lot more than a sword to save you from social damnation in this house-“ Thomas spat, and it was the truth. There was a long list of things he was willing to throw himself on for Phyllis Baxter’s sake. John Bates was at the top. “You’re a good person, you’re honest and kind. You don’t deserve to get a black mark because of me-“ 

Bates was still pressing him into the wall, but thin pale hands were prying Bates’ hands away from Thomas’ throat; his foggy vision failed him, but the smell of Anna’s hand cream gave her identity away as she forced Bates back, away from Thomas, allowing him to crumple against the wall gasping for breath. He coughed several times, his throat burning; his blood pumping wildly in his ears. He wanted to keel over onto the floor but held his ground, gripping the edge of the island table for support with his gloved hand as he slowly regained his breath and his vision. The sight that met him when he straightened up was an ugly one. Anna was holding onto Bates, keeping him back, but her eyes were full of a murderous gleam that Thomas wholly deserved. Phyllis was terrified, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears as she kept her hands pressed over her mouth. 

_Margie would be proud,_ Thomas thought idly to himself, _I protected Phyllis._

“But why did you do it?!” Anna demanded, disappointment and anger battling for dominance in her fragile voice. He looked away, unable to stand her glare, “After all that Mr. Bates did for you when Jimmy was trying to have you arrested-!” 

The mention of Jimmy’s name crippled him; he winced, desperate to block out those images before they overwhelmed him. He could not lose focus in this conversation. Not now; not now when everything was riding on him keeping his head. 

“Because he was sick!” Phyllis spoke up, thunderous in her defense, “He didn’t do it with a clear head, he didn’t do it-!” 

“Phyllis-“ Thomas tried to stop her, but she was a train off the tracks now, barreling down a hill at full speed- 

“No!” She cried out, cutting him off, “Don’t you remember how ill he looked, how utterly awful he appeared a few weeks ago?” She demanded of the Bates, “Look at him now!” She threw a hand out, gesturing wildly to Thomas whose cheeks were beginning to glow, “Does he honestly look well to you?! Does he?!” 

“No, but-“ Anna started; Phyllis cut her off again. 

“Because he isn’t. For weeks he’s been sick. He could barely move at times, but he wouldn’t tell anyone because it was a matter of pride, I suppose, not even so much that as shame-“ Phyllis was rambling, and Thomas was growing more embarrassed by the second. God couldn’t she just _shut up?_ “But I know what it feels like to be ashamed of something that isn’t your fault and I won’t allow you to look at him as a villain when he’s not one! He didn’t know what he was doing.” 

“I think he knew exactly what he was doing-!” Bates snapped. 

“Mr. Bates, he nearly _died_ he was so sick!” Phyllis was close to shouting, holding her own against Bates surprisingly well despite her usually meek composure, “I had to practically drag him to the doctor-!” 

“And what was he sick with?” Bates sneered, far from sympathetic, “Satanic forces?” 

Phyllis looked at Thomas. 

“Don’t-“ the words slipped past his lips, but Phyllis was the one who kept shaking her head now. Phyllis was the one holding the truth- and there was nothing he could do to stop her. 

Absolute shame consumed him. He looked away at once; he couldn’t bear to hear the words. And still Phyllis spoke them. 

“He went to London a few weeks ago for electroshock therapy to try and change himself, to make himself like other men, and when he left he was given liquids to inject and pills to take and they made him violently ill. They made him lose his mind.” 

Silence reigned.   
Phyllis continued on, her voice firm even as it delivered the damning blow, “Fevers, tremors, sweats, sicknesses- he could barely sleep or eat by the end of it because he developed a god awful abscess Dr. Clarkson had to heal- and if you doubt any part of this story you can march straight down to St. James’ Square and he’ll be more than happy to back it up.” 

Another beat of tense silence. 

“Thomas was angry at me, because I came here to support him and we were having disagreements. Then you two were fighting and it just… it just _happened.”_ Phyllis snapped, unable to fully explain but desperate for both Bates and Anna to understand, “He wasn’t in his right mind, I’m telling you. He was very very sick… and he’s been trying to amend that wrong- that letter- ever since he sent it. To make things right. He didn’t have to- he could just as easily watched you two go under-“ 

“No I couldn’t have.” Thomas cut across. 

Watch Anna be arrested for a crime she did not commit? Thomas would rather be shot in the hand again. As it stood, he was eager for a bullet to put through the roof of his mouth if only to escape this god awful moment. His shame, on public display for everyone to see. 

 

Bates let out a sigh, a strangely haggard and weary thing. It was as if he could not believe it, as if Phyllis confession had been a part of his own shame instead of Thomas’ alone. 

The silence just kept dragging, Bates’ sigh an obvious indication of what his facial expression must be. 

“Don’t look at me that way-!” Thomas said loudly for even though he and John were not facing one another he knew John was looking at him with pity. 

“You do realize you’re a damn fool.” John said, but there was no malice in his voice now. His tone was soft, soft as if he was speaking to Anna and not Thomas, “That nothing can change you-“ 

“You’re wrong.” Thomas said, and John stopped cold. 

He turned, looking John full in the face, and just as he’d suspected the expression of pity was written all over his features. Those honey brown eyes which until recently had been so full of malicious intent were now turned and twisted into something Thomas did not recognize. He knew enough about the human condition to recognize it as pity. 

He’d just never seen it directed at _him._

“It’s worked.” Thomas said, with as much dignity as he could muster. 

“What?” John looked truly confused for a moment.   
“What?” Anna mirrored, her tears drying upon even as she hastily wiped her cheeks. 

“Oh here we go.” Phyllis mumbled under her breath; Thomas paid her no mind. 

“It worked.” Thomas repeated, and he did not know why but he suddenly felt the strangest sense of victory over John Bates. Over his cottage and his lovely life. Over his reputation and his friendship with Robert Crawley. Yes, Thomas had come by none of it naturally but he had managed to come by it _by god._ That was all that mattered. 

So long as he didn’t think about Jimmy, didn’t cry about Jimmy, didn’t speak about Jimmy- didn’t even acknowledge the little shit’s existence… he was set. 

“It worked; I didn’t think it would but…” Thomas shuddered at the memory of kissing Daisy; of her soft lips against his own, “it worked.” 

“Thomas, you heard what the Doctor said-“ Phyllis spoke up, and there was a hint of irritation in her voice that Thomas had no expected to be there. He cast her a quizzical look; she only glared back. 

_‘Fine be a bitch’_ he thought vindictively, _‘see where it gets you’._

“Doctor’s can be wrong-“ Thomas began but John cut him off, waving his hand confusedly so that Thomas paused mid sentence. 

“Wait, you mean to tell me you’re attracted to women now?” 

“Y-“ Thomas began, but the look on Phyllis Baxter’s face stopped him cold. It was a shrewd, womanly glare that his mother had offered him over porridge if he were being a brute to his sister and brother, the same glare is sister had given him when he started a ruckus at school; even O’Brian had sported it when Thomas was being a ‘noodle’ or so she called it. 

“No lies.” Phyllis warned softly. Her tone left no room for argument. 

“Well-“ Thomas gestured, first to John and Anna who looked mildly disturbed to Phyllis who was glaring at him all the while, “Not… all women.” Thomas conceded, “But… there is… probable… evidence that… I have… developed…” His hand continued to move in the air; it was difficult to go about this without lying, “emotional connections to… a woman.” 

“You’ve taken up with a girl?” Anna demanded, hardly believing her own words. 

“Yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. Anna just stared. 

_“Who?”_ she demanded and suddenly another terrible silence (much different in nature from the first) filled the air. 

“I’d rather keep that under my hat for the moment.” Thomas snapped, well aware of the flush that was creeping across the cheeks. 

Phyllis made an irritated noise; once again Thomas paid her no mind. 

“Surely no one in the house.” Anna started, but Thomas winced again, unable to stop himself as he thought of how hungrily Daisy had held him about the waist and neck. Suddenly he wondered what Anna would say if she knew it was Daisy. 

But Anna had paused mid sentence- and her face had dropped from assured to downright alarmed. 

“Oh my god-“ Anna looked ready to gag on her tongue, “It’s someone in the house?” 

“Can we just-“ Thomas spluttered, “Back to the- can we just get back to the subject?!” Anna was still looking alarmed, “I fucked up, I lost my mind, I made a mistake, I corrected it today-“ 

“If the police find out you were lying-“ John warned, a meaty hand out to make the judgement call. 

“Then we all three go down!” Thomas declared, his eyes narrowed. 

“And Jimmy and Alfred-“ John added angrily. 

“No, I’ve already got that base covered-“ Thomas shook his head, for the idea of Jimmy suffering the fate of the police made his blood run cold. He would not let it happen, “I’m going to state they knew nothing, that I forged the letters.” John looked mildly impressed at this, his hand dropping to fold his arms across his barrel chest. 

“Alfred’s far too kind to be in jail, he wouldn’t make it a day.” Thomas grumbled, the idea of Alfred in stripes a laughable one as far as he was concerned. As for Jimmy, Thomas would never let him suffer. 

“But what did you say in the letter you wrote to the police?” John demanded, a bit of his anger returning. Thomas lurched for it, wanting that anger, needing it far more than he needed John’s pity. 

“I said that Phyllis knew something, because I thought she did.” Thomas looked to Phyllis now, who suddenly seemed very tense and ashamed. Thomas could understand why, with the weight of Anna’s attack now heavy in the air. 

“And did you?” Anna asked, fear in her voice. 

“I knew… things.” Phyllis admitted. The word ‘things’ was far too much. Thomas looked away. 

The silence was back. 

“… What did you know?” Anna demanded, her voice beginning to quaver again. 

Somehow, Thomas knew that she was talking to him. 

He could see Green’s face; his smirking smug face. He could see the table laid out, breakfast to be eaten, and there was Anna across from him blackened about the eye and forehead. Quivering, frightened, unable to even swallow toast. 

Thomas gritted his teeth. 

“… I sat across the table from him, Anna.” Thomas did not know why that disturbed him so much; maybe the fact that he’d had a chance to reach out and throttle the bastard but had missed it. “I sat across the fucking table from him. I looked at him and talked to him.” 

Thomas glanced up; Anna was on the verge of tears again. She did not seem to believe his words, as if she’d never thought to hear them come from his mouth. 

Anna, sweet Anna, who had only ever been kind towards others. Could it have happened to a less deserving person? 

“Do you know how fucking sick it makes me feel?” Thomas asked; Anna had no answers. John was refusing to look at him now, and Thomas could understand why. If anyone knew the extent of the rage behind Thomas’ thoughts, it was John… John who had no doubt wanted to break every bone in that bastard’s body as soon as he’d found out. 

“You know it’s a damn good thing someone pushed him in the street, otherwise I might have had to do it myself.” Thomas murmured, In a moment of habit, he cracked his neck; the pop of his vertebra sounded unusually loud in the somber boot room. 

John let out a heavy breath, and in a single lean he checked outside the door of the boot room before he shut it again. He looked back, this time staring Thomas straight in the face. 

They regarded each other for a moment; two men on completely opposite sides of the world. 

“…I bought a ticket for London… but I never got off the platform.” John said. 

“The ticket wasn’t torn.” Phyllis said. 

“Exactly.” 

And suddenly Thomas realized the extent of the problem. 

John had everything in regards to police questioning. The motive, the means, and the mayhem. He’d already been on the block for murder once (though Thomas was relatively sure he hadn’t killed his ex-wife either). As for Anna, she was in the same boat- motive, means… but mayhem was lacking. Mayhem was John’s delivery. Who would want to destroy a rapist more than the victim’s husband. To think he’d bought a ticket and was going to go through with it. Thomas couldn’t imagine a more stupid plan- if only John had had the sense to sit and think it through-! 

But how could he sit, how could he think… when his wife’s rapist was walking the streets free and dandy? 

Thomas imagined if he were ever to be put in such a position he would come to the same conclusion: kill the bastard and kill him slow. 

“So, what-“ Thomas flustered, running a hand through his hair; his pomade was beginning to slacken, a few strands dangling before his brow. “You just wandered around York all day?” 

“More or less.” John said. Thomas made a groan of sheer irritation, much like the noise he’d made when Jimmy had admitted to writing notes to Lady Anstruther. “I tended to his lordship’s shoes in a shop, ate at a pub, took a walk in the park, and returned home.” 

“Bet that was a fun walk.” Thomas mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. 

A beat of silence. 

“Thomas you cannot honestly tell me that you are genuinely attracted to women now-“ John started, and Thomas let out another keen of rage. 

“That’s not what we’re talking about!” Thomas snarled; god what would he give for a tire iron to crack John’s face open! 

“It is!” John corrected him at once; behind him Anna nodded, clearly eager to get off the topic of her rape and murdered attacker, “It is what we’re talking about- Why did you go to London? Does Jimmy know about this-?” 

Thomas scoffed; the sheer stupidity of it! As if he’d tell Jimmy such tales. But John seemed quite serious and so Thomas played along with the game if only to find another avenue out. 

“Why should Jimmy care?” Thomas tried for an aloof tone, but it didn’t stick. 

“Because he cares about-“ 

But Thomas would not have this conversation with John, would not go down this road with John. Not when he’d kissed Daisy the night before; not when he stood a fucking chance at normalcy, at a family, at a life worth living and a reputation worth having. At a community and a home-. 

“John, be very careful what you say to me on that subject.” Thomas warned, and John stopped mid-sentence, clearly shocked to hear Thomas use his first name. 

“I’m warning you.” Thomas continued on. “I’m not friendly, on it.” 

John seemed to register that despite their newly birthed camaraderie there were certain topics even friends could not discuss with Thomas Barrow. 

“Are you still taking those injections and pills?” John asked; he looked Thomas up and down as if expecting to see evidence upon his body. 

Well far be it from Thomas to deny John the pleasure of seeing his bare arse, but his livery was such a pain to undo and really… John was a married man. 

“I stopped the injections.” Thomas admitted. 

John blinked. 

“… and the pills?” John carried on, waiting to hear Thomas confirm. But the bottle was in his pocket, and Thomas did not have it in him to lie anymore… he did not have the energy. 

A beat of silence broken by the angry demand of one Phyllis Baxter. Her transformation from Ladies Maid into Harpy was truly incredible. 

“Thomas!” She cried out, coming around the island table to grab him tight by the elbow and shake him hard. Thomas practically gasped, attempting to wrench his arm free only to be tugged back in. “What are you doing?!” Phyllis demanded, her eyes wide and frightened as she searched his face, “Stop! Stop now! You nearly died from this, and you’re still going up the garden path?! You heard what Dr. Clarkson said, there’s no injection, no electric shock-“ 

“He didn’t mention the pills-“ Thomas raised his hands in defense; Phyllis looked ready to strike him. 

“I could strangle you!” She said, and frankly Thomas believed her; her eyes were popping as she threw her hands up into the air with a great surge of exasperation. “Oh! I should write your sister! I think I will.” Phyllis stopped and turned, a new gleam in her eye, “I’m going to write your sister and-“ 

“And tell her what, Phyllis?” Thomas leered even as his heart leapt into his throat. She wouldn’t dare bother Margie about this, would she? Thomas hadn’t written to his sister in fifteen years, had been forbidden to contact her in any way- Thomas shuddered to imagine what Margret’s reaction would be if she were to receive word about Thomas for the first time in nearly two decades only to find out he was taking pills to cure himself of his homosexuality. “What do you think she’s going to do, neh?” 

“I don’t know but I don’t feel comfortable keeping this secret to myself!” Phyllis pointed to her chest as she said it, and Thomas rolled his eyes at the silliness of it all. In this house much more shameful things had happened- Thomas was almost certain Lady Mary’s vagina had killed a turkish diplomat but he didn’t see Anna squealing about that! Phyllis could handle a bottle of pills. 

“I’ll- I’ll tell Mrs. Hughes-!” Phyllis said, and she looked so certain of herself in that moment that Thomas half expected her to dash out the door. He made to block her path, his arm flung wide out lest she try and make a run for it. He was well aware of John’s eyes upon him, could almost hear the tiniest snicker coming from Anna’s lips. 

Well, better to have her laughing than crying, but Thomas wouldn’t have her laughing at his expense. 

“You will not!” Thomas snarled, and for one second the vicious defensive wall that had so scared Phyllis upon first arriving at Downton was back. Thomas leaned in and Phyllis backed up, bumping into the island table only to move back around it, using it as a barrier to keep Thomas away. 

“I will!” She cried out, “I will. If you don’t stop this now, if you don’t-“ Phyllis paused, sucking in the tinniest breath for bravery before she blurted, “I saw you.” 

Thomas stared. Phyllis nodded. 

“I saw you the other night on the roof.” 

A noise flitted past Thomas’ lips, and he was unable to suck it back in. Phyllis had seen them on the roof? But how? Where had she been looking from? Damnit the whole point of going all the way to the top of Downton was to avoid wandering eyes! How much had she seen, and where had she been looking from? 

“You don’t know what you saw-“ Thomas began very carefully, his defensive tone dropping at once as he attempted to retreat to safer waters. He could suss out information while giving away as little as possible- 

“I think it would be very difficult to mistranslate a kiss, Thomas.” Phyllis snapped. Thomas’ mouth snapped shut, his lips pursing in displeasure. 

So she knew. 

“You’re confused.” Phyllis looked highly displeased, and even disappointed, but she didn’t seem on the verge of running to Mrs. Hughes and that was a plus, “You think you love her but you don’t. You love J-“ 

“Stop.” Thomas snapped. Jimmy’s name died on her lips. 

“Wait, you kissed someone on the roof?” Anna demanded agog, “Who did you kiss on the roof?” 

Thomas looked over his shoulder; both John and Anna were waiting with baited breath.   
What would they say if they knew?   
Would they tell Mrs. Hughes? Mrs. Patmore? … Mr. Carson?   
Thomas shuddered at the thought. 

But John’s eyes were narrowing, and as he began to tilt his head Thomas could almost see the gears working away in his mind. His eyes flickered back and forth, taking a moment to process it all. Suddenly Thomas could see it; the way he’d been tutoring Daisy in math, sitting close to her in the servant’s hall, taking her out to the village, going to Mr. Mason’s farm- 

“…Daisy?” John said. Thomas looked way with a grimace. “Daisy.” He repeated, and this time it was almost in awe. 

“Oh my god-“ the horror in Anna’s voice was almost too much for Thomas to stand. 

“It’s- It’s no one’s business-!” Thomas snarled. “Don’t pretend to act like you understand any of it- it’s our personal affair, no one else's-!” And suddenly he was incredibly defensive of that kiss; protective of what it had meant and what it had given him. A future; a future with love in it. He would not let John take that away. He would not. 

“Thomas, you’re gay-!” Anna said this with a laugh, though none of it was funny and she certainly wasn’t smiling. 

“People can change!” Thomas countered. 

“Yes, people can change hairstyles and houses-“ Anna gestured, “but not their sexualities! You cannot change something that is inherently part of your nature-!” 

“Really!” Thomas sneered, the biting edge coming back in his voice, “Because as it so happens, I have! It’s working. The pills are working-!” 

A hysterical voice in the back of his head was beginning to nag him, beginning to warn him that no the pills were not working. He was lying. He was lying to everyone, to himself worst of all. In a protective measure Thomas clutched at his pocket where the pill bottle sat. He slipped his hand inside, gripping the vial tight. 

He held the future in the palm of his hand. If these pills could just work a little bit more Thomas could make a life with Daisy. He could make a hope with Daisy. 

If he could just strengthen his resolve a little bit more- 

“What do you have in your pocket?” John asked, and Thomas realized that everyone was looking at his hidden hand. 

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat; his eyes widening. 

“Is it the pills?” John asked. Thomas tried to speak but couldn’t his throat seizing up. He shook his head instead, looking away. 

But John Bates could always see through him, and Thomas knew even as he lied that there was no point. That John was already aware. 

“Show me the pills.” John said, and there was such a demanding edge in his voice that Thomas instinctively took several steps back as if John might make to leap forward and wrestle the pills from him. These pills were Thomas’ chance at a normal life, he would not be parted from them! 

“No.” Thomas snapped. John took a step forward, his hand outstretched. 

_A pantry, tight and cramped, a familiar angry face towering over him, large thick fingered hands coming down upon his neck-!_

Thomas jerked his hands out, both of them balled into fists, and he held them up in such a way that he could have struck John if he dared to take another step towards him. 

“Don’t come closer!” Thomas spat his warning, but it was hardly needed. The sight of Thomas growing so defensive made John realize that he was pushing a button. He dropped his hands, but did not back off, and Thomas still kept his own up just in the off chance that he lunged. Anna and Phyllis looked on, wide eyed at the two men facing off. 

This was more deadly than any war zone; two bitter enemies in close quarters. Every flinch was preamble to a strike. 

“Show me the pills. “John repeated, this time with less heat and more understanding. “I just want to see them.” 

“You’re going to do something to them-“ Thomas snapped. “You’re going to get rid of them-“ 

“I won’t do anything to them.” John promised, and he spoke in such a tone that Thomas felt mocked. As if John thought he was a skittish horse instead of a grown fucking man. As if he was a child that needed to be consoled, “I just want to make sure they’re not vile-“ 

“Thomas, the liquids they gave you were dangerous.” Phyllis spoke up, and she had a fair point, “Whose to say the pills aren’t more of the same?” 

“I got them from someone different than the liquids-“ Thomas said; he didn’t know why but he couldn’t look John in the face all of a sudden. his eyes were locked onto John’s hands, waiting for them to lunge out and try to seize the pill bottle in his clenched fist. Thomas took another step backward. 

John didn’t make to close the distance. 

“Yes, but if the liquids could give you that wound on your hip then think about what pills could do.” Phyllis urged, “Think of how they could mess with your mind-“ 

A beat of ugly silence; all eyes were upon Thomas now and he knew it. He could feel the heat of their stares. 

“… Is that why you were limping?” John asked. Thomas didn’t answer; there was no point in it anyway. John could see right through him, knew everything already. If anything, him asking was only a formality. 

As the silence stretched, John held out his hand again. This time, it was slow so that Thomas could watch every inch as John’s hand moved through the air. 

“Show me the pills, Thomas.” 

Thomas did not move, his eyes locked on John’s outstretched hand.   
Another beat of silence. John stepped forward. 

Instantly, in an attempt to get out, Thomas surged for the door. John beat him too it, slamming his hand hard upon it so that Thomas could not open it and escape into the hall. Anna and Phyllis both had had to move out of the way, and both women looked rattled by the movement as if they expected a god’s honest fight to break out now. John and Thomas were so close that if John moved his hand just a bit he would be able to touch Thomas upon the shoulder. Thomas clutched his hands close to his chest, the pill bottle tight against his hammering heart. He leaned against the door, trying to look coy and caring but failing to hide the hitch in his breath as each wind came out rattled. He knew John was too close, that John could hear in his tempo how frightened he was. 

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” John said, his tone dark and soft with warning. Thomas knew he was on borrowed time; that John was losing his patience and at this point could seize upon him. Could wrench the pills away if he so chose.

Thomas could not lose these pills, could not lose his future. His fingers trembled around the dark brown glass. 

“Finally showing that violent side, eh?” Thomas tried for a bite, “I always knew it was there. Maybe you could shove my head into the wall like you did upstairs. You like throwing me into furniture don’t you-“ 

“You can’t bait me Thomas.” John shook his head, his eyes locked upon Thomas’ face. Thomas was studying Anna’s black heeled shoes, unable to look John in the face. John’s voice was so close though, Thomas knew that he was about to be pinned against the door with John blocking his way out. Thomas backed up but found he had no where to go; he was pressed into the corner of the shelf. The best he could do at this point would be to squeeze between John and the shelf but that would only put him further into the room with Anna and Phyllis. “I know you’re not foul. I know it’s a mask you hide behind. I’ve been able to see your real face since the day I got here.” 

And it was the truth. Thomas winced, closing his eyes. He couldn’t even bear to look at Anna’s shoes anymore. Every breath he took was labored; a horrible hot flush was creeping across his face. 

A hand was upon his own.   
Thomas did not open his eyes; did not want to see the sight of John’s thick and steady fingers upon his own slim trembling ones. Did not want to have the visual to confirm as John began to pry back his fingers with an iron grip that Thomas could not fight. It was almost bizarrely tender, and Thomas realized with a sickening lurch that in a stupid way he’d always wondered what it would feel like for John to touch him and not be attempting to hit him. 

The thought made him shudder; he knew John felt it, for the hand upon his own suddenly stilled for a fraction of a second. 

Thomas’ grip loosened on the pill bottle; John resumed and tore it away from him. Thomas was left emptied handed with his eyes still closed, and he instinctively folded his arms over his chest defensively as he opened his eyes to look at the door. John was holding the pill bottle up to the light. 

Phyllis took keen interest, coming over to get a better look, and as John opened the top of the bottle to pour a few pills into the meaty palm of his hand even Anna stepped forward to look at them. The ugly shame welling up inside of Thomas was horrible to endure; he pressed his sweating forehead into the cool wood of the door. Anna picked up a pill, holding it up to observe it better. They were a queer maroon color, round and almost as large as a fingernail. 

“I’ve never seen a pill like this.” Anna murmured; she did not sound happy about it. 

“What are they?” Phyllis wondered, fear likewise in her voice.

“I think you should show this to Dr. Clarkson. Today.” John said, and he cupped his hands about the lip of the bottle so that all the pills he’d poured out could fall back in. Anna likewise dropped her pill in; John recapped the lid. 

Thomas extended his hand, bitterly hating himself the moment he realized that his fingers were noticeably trembling. 

“Give them back.” Thomas demanded. 

“I don’t think you need to be taking these, Thomas.” John made no move to hand the bottle over, and that just made Thomas furious. 

“Give them back!” Thomas shouted. 

“As a friend, I cannot let you delude yourself in this way-“ 

“You promised!” Thomas felt like a child even as he said it, but damnit John _had_ promised. He was suddenly reminded of his childhood; of unfair teachers and cruel older classmates. Of being too small, too weak to defend himself; of wanting to cry but knowing it would only hurt worse in the end if he did. Even so, Thomas felt his throat constricting and he looked away briefly to try and gain some control over himself before he turned back with his hand once more stretched to receive the pill bottle. 

Something had changed in John’s expression. Where before he’d looked certain now he looked sympathetic. 

Thomas hated that look; hated what it meant; hated John. Hated John with all the gut and glory in him. He knew that his fury was showing upon his face, for as much sympathy as John had for him it was slowly slipping away to be replaced by the normal irritation that Thomas was used to receiving. Thomas began to relax, feeling better with that irritation- but once again the sympathy returned. 

“You can’t stand it, can you.” John said, his voice soft with knowing. “Having others feel sorry for you. It eats at you.” 

Thomas swallowed. 

“Why?” John asked. Thomas had no answers for him. 

“… Give them back.” Thomas whispered, flexing his fingers for emphasis. John sighed, looking down at the pill bottle with resigned bitterness as if he wished for nothing more than to hurl the whole lot out the window. Resigned, he handed the pills back over to Thomas instead, and Thomas snatched them away so that their fingers were in contact for as little time as possible. Anything to ease the itching pain in his chest. 

“There. We’re all in the open now, you and me.” Thomas rambled, bitter and hateful for the tremble in his voice, “but this conversation stays in this room. I don’t wanna hear it mentioned in the servant’s hall-“ without meaning to his Stockport accent slipped out. 

“Daisy deserves to know-“ John urged, and Thomas knew it was the truth. 

“I’m going to tell her-“ Thomas stuttered, “Just- not- not right now. I need more… time.” 

What he needed was a hit of morphine and a two month long nap, but he couldn’t exactly have either. 

“But you will tell her, yes?” John asked, and his gaze was so insistent that Thomas found himself blushing. He suddenly wished John would shout at him again, treat him like a dirt. Anything to avoid being treated like a friend. It was too much to bear. 

“Yes.” Thomas ground out. John didn’t seem truly satisfied but he leaned back all the same. Thomas was grateful for the breathing room. 

For a minute a terrible silence hung between the two men, full of fifteen years worth of bitterness and cruelty on both sides. Barbs, taunts, and threats… schemes and plots- could there be anything more obscene than what lay between them? 

“I don’t even know what to say to you.” John murmured; his voice was sickeningly soft and sad. Thomas couldn’t stand it, cringing on instinct, “For the first time in my life, I can’t hate you. I even feel sorry for you, though I know you won’t l-“ 

“Don’t you dare pity me.” Thomas ground out. John stared at Thomas with such heart felt sympathy that Thomas suddenly felt the urge to grab a shoe brush and beat John around the face with it. Anything to make John hate him again and _stop_ looking at him that way. 

“It’s difficult not to when I’m happily married and in a cottage every night.” John said. 

Thomas closed his eyes, and wished the room were on fire. Wished that he were on fire with it. His mind was filled with that new shade of purple, with the image of Jimmy in the woods, kissing him soundly upon the lips. Of the cottage he’d never have, and the bed he’d never share. 

“When we spoke… _that_ night.” John’s voice cut across the morbid silence, forcing Thomas back into the presence though he kept his eyes closed, “You said you envied me.” 

Thomas turned his face away, eyes still closed. He did not care to think of that night- the night when all the stars had gone out. 

“I thought you were being sarcastic at first. I’m sorry.” 

It was the first time in his life that John Bates had ever apologized to Thomas; it was just as crippling and damning as Thomas have ever imagined it to be. 

How he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole in that moment, destroy him utterly so that no trace of him could ever be found. The shame was so great within him that Thomas felt he might break apart from the sheer force of it. 

“For what it’s worth-“ 

“What is it worth, John?” Thomas demanded, finally opening his eyes to stare John fully in the eye. John was still looking at him with that sympathetic hue, that compassionate glow so often reserved for other people like Mrs. Hughes or Anna; Thomas had never received it before, save for a few times in his life (his mother when his father had raged, Mr. Hughes on that starless night) and did not know what to do with it now any more than then. 

“To the victor go the spoils.” Thomas said nastily, hoping to jolt John back into role of enemy instead of tentative friend, “I’ve told you that before, I think.” 

“I didn’t realize you were talking about the heart, then.” John murmured. 

Thomas sneered, rolling his eyes. Every icy wall that had dropped in this conversation was starting to crawl back up, cutting John off. John seemed to sense it, his brow furrowing as his honey eyes began to darken once more. 

_Yes. Hate me,_ Thomas thought with pride. _Hate me for gods sake, but don’t pity me._

“Don’t be a fool, Mr. Bates.” Thomas scoffed, “You know I don’t have a heart.” 

John’s eyes softened again; Thomas’ eye twitched before he could stop it. Why was John beginning to look at him that way again? Why couldn’t he just _hate_ Thomas like before? Could the stupid prig not take a hint? 

“You do have a heart.” John said. Thomas sneered again, but John continued on, “I know nothing about it, because you never thought any of us worthy enough to share it with, but I know that you have one. You can’t tell me you don’t; not after Jimmy-“ 

“Stop.” Thomas spat. John bristeled. 

“Jimmy-“ 

“Stop saying his name!” Thomas snarled. 

John drew a breath, his eyes widening. Thomas’ eye twitched for a second time. 

“Jimmy.” He said, his tone cool and scathing, “Jimmy, Jimmy, _Jimmy-“_

“Stop it.” Thomas’ heart was beginning to pound in his chest. 

“You can’t stand it, can you, hearing his name when you’re taking those pills and lying to Daisy- you can’t pretend your heartless when you hear it-“ 

“I’m warning you, stop!” Thomas snarled. John would do no such thing. 

“I won’t-“ 

“You bastard-!” 

“Thomas listen to me!” John urged; the voices in Thomas’ head were screaming now, raging at full blast and demanding that Thomas beat John to a bloody pulp before he said another word. He clutched the pill bottle to his chest, blood thundering in his ears; John’s voice easily carried over it all, too truthful and strong to be denied in that critical moment. “Whatever those pills are making you feel, you cannot deny that you love Jimmy-!” 

“Stop it, John!” Thomas shouted, but John would not stop, did not seem capable of stopping- 

“I won’t!” He thundered back, pressed right upon Thomas so that his breath was hot upon Thomas’ face, “Not when you’re lying to yourself- lying to Daisy-!” 

“I’m not lying to Daisy!” Thomas defended, though it was a pitiful stance to take against John. It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t a truth, and it therefore wouldn’t stand a minute against the wrath of John Bates. 

“You love Jimmy!” John stormed; Thomas jerked, but John kept firm hold, pushing forward. Images were flashing beneath Thomas’ eyelids as he pinched his eyes closed. 

“You know you do! I know you do!”  
_Jimmy walking into the servant’s hall for the first time, smug and confident-_

“Everyone in this room knows you do!”  
_Jimmy struggling with his livery, bare and golden skin practically glowing in the dark._

 

“Everyone in this house knows you do! How could we not after the way you devoted yourself to him-“ 

_“I SAID NOTHING EXCEPT GET OUT-! GO ON, GET OUT THOMAS!”_

Thomas could take no more. He reared back and shoved John Bates with all the force he could muster, causing the older man to fall backward and into the island table. 

“STOP IT!” Thomas screamed, every inch of the agony within him bursting forth if only for the slightest second. Utterly enraged and horribly embarrassed, Thomas realized that his eyes were beginning to wet. He couldn’t stand it- he was seething with rage! “God damnit what’s wrong with you?!” Thomas demanded angrily. John had no answer, shocked into momentary silence by Thomas’ outburst, “Just leave me alone! Why can you just leave me alone?!” 

John opened his mouth- Thomas could bear it no longer. 

He turned on his heel, wrenching the door of the boot room open with such force that it broke the lock holding it closed. The pin clattered to the stone floor with a high pitched chime- Thomas did not spare it a backwards glance. He was out the door and gone before the other three could comment on it, leaving behind a fragile silence that seemed liable to shatter with even the tiniest bit of noise. The scuffle overhead of a servant moving in their room, the sound of someone shuffling the evening paper in the servant’s hall. 

Anna bent over and picked up the broken lock from the floor, turning the pin over in her weathered hands. 

“… Why is always the boot room?” she asked. No one had an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is truly nothing more delightful than writing a Thomas/Bates fight scene; if you haven't done it, you haven't lived yet. I highly recommend everyone attempt to write one at least once in their lives. 
> 
> Particularly because Bates cuts through Thomas' bullshit like a hot knife through butter.  
> (John Bates may or may not be a Thommy shipper)   
> (or at least a Thomas-get-your-act-together shipper)


	8. A Long Way to Tipperary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Choose your own path…” Elsie read the heading aloud, knowing full well Beryl’s eyes were far from sharp. The more Elsie read, the more disturbed she became, “Suffering from thoughts of an unnatural nature? Find yourself longing for things beyond God’s plan? Eager to change your situation but unsure how? Look no farther than the offices of Warren and Warren who bring you the courageous option to change your nature and your life…For good.” Elsie drifted off, looking up at Baxter, unsure of what to say or where to begin, “I can’t be reading this right. What is this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be slight mentions of verbal abuse/child abuse in this chapter.

Thomas was no stranger to nightmares, but new ones were rare at the age of twenty-nine. 

_He was walking down a corridor he knew well, one he’d trod a thousand times in his life, and yet something was different tonight. The air was thick, a swirling smokey blackness obscuring his vision so that even as he put one foot down he could not see in front of the other. He knew his destination was ahead, could sense it more than see it, but he had no idea what it looked like or how he’d know when he found it._

_He heard footsteps behind him, and paused. Looking over his shoulder he found no one following him._

_Slightly disturbed, he picked up the pace._

_One foot, then another; one foot, and one again. More and more he trod, closer to the end- but those damn footsteps were still behind him. Thomas stopped, his heart pounding wildly in his ears, he looked over his shoulder and found only blackness greeting him. He half expected a ghoulish face to jump out of the darkness._

_And then he heard a voice._

_“What is this book-?! What is it?! Tell me what it is, boy!”_  
“I- it’s just- it’s not what you think-!”  
“What do I think, then?! Tell me what I think, since you seem to know what goes on in my head!” 

_It was not the first voice that inspired fear in Thomas, for he’d heard it many times in his sleep: the acerbic, misanthropic growl of his father. It was the second voice._

_The voice of Jimmy Kent, in pain._

_“Jimmy?!” Thomas cried out, running down the hall now with clear purpose and even clearer fear. If his father was speaking to Jimmy, yelling at Jimmy, there could be only one end result. With a tone like that, so angry and commanding, Jimmy must have done something to upset his father. Jimmy would be punished; hurt. Thomas could not allow that. Could not let it happen._

_“Jimmy! Jimmy answer me!”_

_He ran past one door, then another, each looking the same and none offering solutions._

_“Jimmy! Jimmy where are you! Answer me! Love, answer me!”_

_“It’s not against the law to hope-“  
“YOU THINK YOU’RE PERFECT?!” _

_A slapping sound, and the muffled scream of Jimmy in excruciating pain.  
Thomas came upon a door and took it but found it locked. Desperate to gain entry he rammed it hard with his shoulder so that it nearly caved in as he rushed through into the next room. _

_It was Jimmy’s bedroom, lacking only Jimmy in the bed- but clocks covered every open surface… a blanket of ticking glass and cogs._

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock- Thomas turned left and right, practically spinning in a circle as he searched for Jimmy._

_“Jimmy! Answer me!” Thomas screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls and ricocheting back at him._

_“-Jimmy! Jimmy please!”_

_“YOU THINK YOU’RE PERFECT?!”_

_Thomas was thrown completely off guard as his spinning came to stop right before his father; domineering, broad shouldered and tall, his weathered face spitting with rage as he reared back a massive hand to crack Thomas hard across the face. Thomas screamed and fell against the far wall, his feet flying up from under him from the force of the blow-_

 

Thomas jolted awake, drenched in sweat and writhing in his thin covers, fighting some unseen foe even as he came back to understanding of what was reality.

It took a moment for him to understand that the bed he was sleeping in was not his own, that his surroundings were unfamiliar in that they were not common. He’d been here before. 

Just not in a while. 

He was in Grantham House in London… a polished, quiet house full of pillars and iron staircases. They’d arrive two days ago, and were preparing for Lady Rose’s wedding. 

Thomas sat up, a hand jerking about his face and neck as he desperately wiped away sweat and sucked in one soothing breath after another. Fuck if he didn’t hate dreaming bout his father, particularly now when he was already in a state and having to handle the crippling pressure of a massive gala wedding. He’d not seen his father in fifteen years, and could not clearly recall what the man looked like. Something deep inside Thomas had mentally blacked the entire affair out, causing him to forget even the most simple parts of his father’s features. But Thomas knew that if a day should ever come where the two men would pass on the streets, he would be able to recognize his father in a heart beat. It was difficult to forget the face of a man who’d meant so much for so many years… only to do so much harm in the end. 

Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Now was the time for work. For diligence. For preparation. 

Thomas spent the morning unpacking, sorting, and caring for the massive inventory list that came with hosting a party for Lady Rose; she was never one to do things out of style and even the most comely of women could be extravagant when it came to their weddings. Thomas worked closely with Mrs. Hughes through the morning, the first to greet her when she rose at five and found him already downstairs. She took it in her stride, eager to get on with the day; Mrs. Patmore on the other hand moaned and moaned. Mrs. Patmore was a mixture between disappointed and thrilled to find that her cake had not suffered damages on its trip up to London; she spent the morning grumbling to Daisy only to give the cake sitting on the massive kitchen island an appraising eye and relent. Thomas paid her little attention. 

Thomas' mind was a jumble that could not be untangled to deal with Patmore, Hughes, Carson, or even Daisy. 

It was a ball of wire, twisted and gnarled, all around the conversation of the boot room. 

What had started out so simple, a meager plan to get Anna out of trouble and repair the damage of his bastardly letter, had turned into an argument that he hadn’t been ready to have. Just as Thomas had predicted, John Bates had not played nice nor fair, hitting every weary nerve in Thomas’ body as he forced Thomas to confront his demons in semi-public. Typical John Bates, typical ego-stroking behavior, or so Thomas had assumed while tossing and turning in his bed the night of the argument. The next morning, however, when he’d risen, dressed, and descended downstairs to begrudgingly partake in breakfast, he’d found a bizarre party waiting for him. 

Jimmy’s seat (the chair to Thomas' right), so often either taken up by Phyllis or entirely vacated, was filled by none other than John Bates. Thomas had taken his normal seat with wary discomfort, his nerves jangled by the unprecedented seat-swap which he was certain would only lead to another argument in the middle of the servant’s hall. 

They’d eaten in an awkward silence, the clinking of cutlery upon plates unusually loud as everyone waited for John to say something to Thomas; for Thomas to say something to John.  
Neither had spoken through the entire meal. 

They’d left for London that very day. 

Now they’d been in London for five days, with the wedding on Friday and only three days left to prepare it all. Thomas would have given anything to speed up time, to get the wedding over and done with so that the group of them could go home and he could relax. 

He was certain he wasn’t the only one. Mrs. Hughes was having to run a household without any of her usual commodities, suddenly taking over for Mrs. Bute and looking very uncomfortable about it. Mrs. Patmore was close to having another anxiety attack over the wedding feast, causing Daisy to be a jittery wreck. Mr. Carson couldn’t stand London on base principle and made sure to let Thomas know it at every possible opportunity. The only good thing to come with the new demands of a London wedding was a new boy named Andy Parker who was, in a word, utterly adorable. 

Had Thomas not been struggling with his homosexuality and utterly in love with the ghost of footmen past, he would have jumped on Andy in a heartbeat. Andy was charming, a Bayswater youth with brown curly hair and a doe-eyed expression that just seemed to scream “take advantage of me and quickly”… which was preciously what Denker had done. Thomas had watched from the very beginning, being the one to initiate Andy into the Downton household on his first day while Denker set her hooks into him and promised him a good time after lights out. Why anyone would want to have a ‘good time’ with Denker was beyond Thomas; she looked like a cross between a buzzard and a soggy toad, with a warbling neck that jiggled with every jerk of the head. Andy had looked unenthused at the prospect of spending time alone with Denker, but hadn’t seemed to know how to get away. He was wet around the ears, a green horn, and quite easy to run over simply because he never stuck up for himself. It made Thomas’ blood boil, watching Andy pale as Denker jerked him about by the elbow, dragging him off to who knows where in the dead of night when she thought no one else was looking. Every day Andy returned looking more and more frightened, more and more eager to be away from her. Yet every time someone made a comment to Denker regarding her boorish behavior, she put them off, her acerbic attitude creating an effective barrier that kept most everyone out save for Thomas who was not a stranger to shade and feared nothing that Denker could possibly throw at him. 

All in all, the downstairs staff needed a vacation away from the upstairs’ vacation. And Denker. 

Mid morning, Thomas sat at the servant’s table, smoking a woodbine and preparing the schedule for the morning of the wedding which was proving to be quite a challenge as several servants wanted to attend (such as Anna and Phyllis who’d already bought dresses and were eager to wear them) leaving large gaps for Thomas to fill with inexperienced hall boys and nervous maids. Around him a nervous flutter of servants came and went, eager to get on with their work if only to keep one jump ahead of Mr. Carson who was yo-yoing between barking orders at the staff and (for some reason) sweet talking Mrs. Hughes. 

Thomas got a right chuckle out of hearing Mr. Carson declare himself “not prejudiced”, with Mr.s Hughes making a snappy retort of professing he had a lack of “Self-knowledge”. Clearly Mr. Carson had forgotten his initial treatment of Jack Ross, the black London band leader, or the Sinderby’s…. not to mention Thomas himself. 

Yet Mr. Carson had more to worry about than Mrs. Hughe’s rebuttal of affection for suddenly Ms. Denker was upon him, pressing for Andy to have time off despite having only been under employ for a few days. Thomas listened with keen interest from the table, blowing a jet of cigarette smoke from his nose as Denker wound Carson round her wrinkled pinky finger. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes, recalling an earlier conversation with Andy in which Andy had been so distressed from his ‘walk’ with Denker that he’d cursed in front of Mrs. Hughes. It had almost been a flash-back to Jimmy, who’d had a foul mouth all his own and a penchant for causing trouble when backed into a corner. 

But Andy was not Jimmy, and when backed into a corner could only cower. Thomas found none of it amusing. 

“What were you going to show him that you didn’t show him last night?” Thomas asked, taking another drag of his cigarette as Denker stopped dead in the doorway with a wary look upon her wrinkled face. 

“Why? What did he tell you?” She demanded. 

“Only that he didn’t enjoy himself.” Thomas sneered, exhaling another cloud of smoke and giving Denker his best scowl. 

She rebuked it with a tittering laugh. “Oh, poor diddums.” She sneered, “I hope he’s made of sterner stuff than that.” 

But as she walked away with a freshly carved look of victory, Thomas knew that Denker cared for nothing in regards to Andy’s strength. Indeed, the fact that he wasn’t made of ‘sterner stuff’ seemed to delight her. 

Thomas exhaled a final plume of smoke and butted out his cigarette. It was good timing, for just as the air cleared Daisy appeared with a cup of tea in hand to perch beside him in an empty chair. Despite it being only early morning and the days work hardly begun, Daisy looked exhausted and Thomas felt for her as she slid him a cup of tea. He accepted it with a smile, taking a sip as he pushed the schedule out of harms way lest a drop or two fall. 

“Have you got a moment?” Daisy asked, casting an eye to the as of yet unfinished schedule. 

“For you, yes.” Thomas assured her. 

“I’m going out later today to see the Wallace collection with Mr. Moseley and Ms. Baxter.” Daisy explained, “I was wondering if you might come with us?” 

Thomas thought it through, a long line of chores and tasks clogging up his mind even while his soul yowled at him to take the opportunity and run with it… anything to get out of the house and away from Carson. 

“That should be fine.” Thomas mused, taking a sip of tea to warm his numbed throat, “I have some work I need to cover first, and I’d have to know how long we’d be gone-“ 

“Only a few hours.” Daisy assured him, suddenly grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of him accompanying her to the museum, “We’d leave after lunch.” 

“I can manage that.” Thomas said. Daisy beamed. “But I’d best tackle the schedule now if I’m to be free.” He added, sliding the schedule back towards him; Daisy opened her mouth to say something but an angry dimmed shout from Patmore in the kitchens caused her rise up with a groan and make a beeline for the inner halls once more. Thomas grinned after her, in spite of himself. 

 

The Wallace collection was a massive museum in Hertford House off of Manchester Square that housed a word-famous collection of both fine and decorative arts from the fifteenth to nineteenth century. There was a paintings gallery with works from Spain, France, and Italy; another wing boasted a massive collection of ceramics and furniture. It was such a collection of staggering opulence that Thomas was momentarily put off simply because it overwhelmed him. Daisy practically had stars in her eyes, clad in her pink dress and matching hat while Phyllis boasted a mauve hat and scarf attached at the arm to Moseley who seemed torn between examining the paintings and examining Phyllis. Phyllis won out in the end, and Moseley proceeded to woo her all through the museum trip. 

Thomas had been growing irritated at the entire display until he’d realized that Daisy had been looking at him in the same fashion, and even seemed eager to take his arm. Her gloved fingers had been twitching, never rising past her hip bone as if in fear. 

He caught her eye, noting the longing there.  
He offered her his arm and she took it once, grinning again from ear to ear. 

They took a walk in Manchester Park shortly after leaving the Wallace Collection, a green area parallel to a well kept lake where the queen’s swans flocked and kept guard over water lilies and ancient willow fronds. Moseley and Phyllis were right friendly with one another, arm in arm and making calf-eyes as they discussed different pieces of the Wallace collection. 

“It’s funny isn’t it?” Daisy mused, stroking the inside of Thomas’ arm from where she held it in her gentle grip, “Seeing families collide. I like the Sinderby’s from what I’ve heard about them, but we never see anything downstairs in the kitchens. We never see _anything_ in the kitchens.” 

Thomas sighed, wishing for silence; a constant longing when in Daisy’s presence. 

Yet Daisy’s face was shifting from benign happiness to something darker, a turbulent current hidden by the surface facade of a calm sea. 

“Being in that museum, I feel as if I’ve been lead down a coal hole and someone’s brought me out in the sunlight.” Daisy did not sound happy about it though. 

“Well that's very gratifying.” Moseley seemed momentarily pleased until Daisy started carrying on, her tone just growing sharper and sharper by the minute. Thomas felt her grip tighten on his arm. 

“Is it though? I feel so resentful, so discontented. It’s as if my old life were a prison I have to go back to.” Daisy said. 

Thomas grimaced. He knew that feeling well.  
Moseley’s grin had slipped right off his face; Phyllis looked quite put out as well. 

“Don’t say that.” Suddenly Thomas was confronted with the bizarre situation of Moseley looking to him for help, eyeballing him with the clear intent of _‘say something to her!’_ while Daisy scowled on his arm. 

But what could Thomas say when he agreed with her? Thomas winced, his gaze flitting down to Daisy who was moodily picking at a loose thread in the cuff of his jacket sleeve. 

“Is that how you really feel?” Thomas asked Daisy, “Or are you just-“ 

But Thomas suddenly drifted off as he heard a rather telling argument drifting in on a late autumn breeze. The voice of Lady Rose in high pitched distress was momentarily shocking; to remember their jobs and the family outside of the confines of the houses in which they served. 

Sometimes Thomas forgot how shitty his life was when he was simply walking around a park. 

There upon the hill, not a good three hundred feet form them were Lady Rose and Atticus Aldridge, elbow deep in an argument and getting hotter by the minute. Lady Rose was struggling, emotionally compromised as she yelled angrily at Atticus Aldridge who was desperately trying to get her to listen to something. Of course, if Lady Rose didn’t want to listen to something, wild horses couldn’t make her, and so she continued to jerk her elbow away from Aldridge, yelling _“That doesn’t even make any sense!”_ at the top of her voice. 

_No sense indeed,_ Thomas agreed internally, _you ought to be a blushing bride not screaming like a peahen._

“Let’s leave them to it.” Moseley suddenly spoke up, head bowed in awkward shame as if the entire argument were his fault and he were a snoop for listening in. Thomas narrowed his eyes, glancing away from Lady Rose and Aldridge as Daisy took his arm even tighter. She looked in an even worse mood now, and when she picked up the pace Thomas did not stop her so that suddenly he and Daisy were taking the lead in their odd little party, walking in front of Moseley and Baxter who were still conversing. 

“What if they cancel the wedding?” Daisy muttered moodily. Thomas squeezed her arm. 

“Then I’ll be bloody irritated for all the hard work you put into that cake-“ 

“Will we get to eat it?” Daisy’s voice picked up at this; Thomas could not help but smirk as he imagined the chaos of the entire downstairs staff helping themselves to enormous amounts of wedding cake. 

“Well we can’t just throw it away-“ Thomas said, “Don’t worry about them, though. I’m sure they’ll work it out-“ 

And if they didn’t, Thomas was going to cut himself a massive piece of wedding cake. 

“I don’t know though-“ Phyllis murmured; Thomas cast a glance over his shoulder to find her still gawking at Lady Rose and Aldridge; they were fading now, two lone figures on the hill slipping further and further out of sight. “You’re never safe until the ring’s on your finger.” 

“Do you want to be safe, Ms. Baxter?” Moseley quipped. Thomas jerked his head around, grinning maddeningly as he imagined what David Baxter might say if he heard someone talking about his sister in such a way. David had once punched a neighboring farm boy in the face for cat-calling Phyllis on her way home after school; Thomas tried to envision Moseley and David Baxter going to fisticuffs over Phyllis. It resulted in him snickering; Daisy caught him and pinched him tersely on the arm while Phyllis glared at him and jerked her head as if to say _‘turn back around, you cad’._

Thomas did so, begrudgingly. 

~*~

Phyllis was eternally grateful for Daisy taking Thomas farther and farther up the physical garden path, eager to put as much distance between him and Joseph Moseley as possible before a god’s honest row broke out. Joseph was a patient man, born of hard work and diligent belief in the good of others, but Thomas Barrow could grate the nerves of even the most sensible chap… and Joseph was far from guiltless when it came to a temper particularly where Phyllis herself was concerned. As Daisy and Thomas walked on, Phyllis hung back, causing Joseph to slow up as well with a slightly concerned look upon his face. 

The weight upon her chest was becoming unbearable. The more Daisy clung to Thomas’ arm, the more Phyllis fretted for the future. She needed a confidant, someone she could turn to to voice her woes… and she knew just the candidate for the position. 

“Mr. Moseley.” Phyllis said, as soon as she was certain both Thomas and Daisy were out of ear shot, “I need to discuss something with you. Something very important.” Joseph slowed up even more, now realizing Phyllis’ need for distance. “I like to think we can rely upon one another… keep each other safe?” 

Joseph smiled tenderly; Phyllis’ heart skipped a beat. 

“You can always count on me, Ms. Baxter.” Joseph assured her, and Phyllis was glad to hear it. It was exactly the sort of stable confidence she needed in such a shaky time. “Always.” And with that he offered her his arm. 

She took it at once, interlacing to tenderly hold at the cuff of his jacket; she wondered how she should best approach this sorry tale and supposed that the only true way about it was to go back to the very beginning. To a time when Stockport had been the entire world as far as she was concerned, and the Barrow and Son’s Clock shop had been the center. 

“Did you ever wonder how it was that Thomas I knew one another so well?” Phyllis asked. 

“I did, I confess.” Joseph pursed his lips irritably at the name. 

“We grew up together.” Phyllis explained; Joseph looked mildly impressed, “His twin sister Margret was my best friend in childhood. His parents were practically second to my own… I’ve known Thomas from the time he was five.” 

“A five year old Thomas Barrow.” Joseph shuddered at the thought, “That’s frightening to imagine.” 

She wondered what Joseph might think if he knew the actuality; that Thomas as a child had been undeniably sweet and tender; affectionate to all creatures and desperate for love in return. 

“He was actually quite sweet and gentle.” Phyllis said. 

“Then explain to me why he is the way he is now.” Joseph grumbled irritably, “With a constitutional agreement against anyone being happy. Including you.” 

“His father made him nasty.” Phyllis said; Joseph slowed just a step, his dark eyes flickering up to the back of Thomas’ head. He was now a good ways up the path with Daisy still hanging on his arm. She kept pointing out across the pond, causing Thomas to look up and out. He cut a striking profile, a sharp broad shouldered lad with a firm chin and proud nose. 

Joseph seemed to understand there was more implied than simply family quarrels. Phyllis was glad for his keen eye. 

“His father is a very… hard man.” Phyllis paused, unsure of how best to describe Nathaniel Barrow. 

She could remember being a young girl, unsure of the world and her place in it; her father a farmer that could barely sell with his shoddy reputation in the town. They’d found good business with the Barrows, a dark family with and even darker reputation who did not care that Phyllis’ father was a convicted criminal with a prison sentence behind him. Her father had been glad for the companionship, striking up a fast friendship with Nathaniel Barrow despite what the other townspeople had warned against him. 

_“He’s dangerous, man.”_ the local baker had warned Phyllis’ father. _“Don’t cross him!”_

But her father never had; the pair of them had been right bosom friends with their families soon becoming heavily intermingled. Phyllis had been made fun of constantly at school for striking up friendship with a five year old girl when she herself was thirteen, but she hadn’t cared. Margret Barrow had been the perfect companion for her; just like her father and Nathaniel Barrow. She’d spent countless nights sprawled on the living room floor of the Barrow’s attic home, watching Margret’s mother, Alice Barrow, sew buttons onto Thomas’ trousers while Thomas himself hid in a tiny nook beneath the kitchen sink drawing pictures birds he’d seen but did not know the names of. 

She’d watched when Nathaniel Barrow had barked at Thomas to go socialize even when Thomas had begged not to; had been wary to remember how Nathaniel Barrow had snatched the sketchbook from Thomas, whopped him over the head with it, and proceeded to chew him out publicly for not being a good ‘host’ till Thomas had begun to cry with great heaving breathes. Like clockwork (a funny term for a family elbow deep in clocks), Alice Barrow had abandoned Thomas’ half finished trousers to save him from Nathaniel Barrow, snatching him up from the kitchen floor to sequester him in his shared bedroom with Margret. 

She’d emerged about half an hour later, her collar wet from Thomas’ tears, to pronounce that Thomas would not be joining them for dinner that night and had instead chosen to go to bed early. 

“He was never satisfied, never impressed. No matter what Thomas did, it wasn’t good enough.” Phyllis admitted, “He used to yell at Thomas, quite a lot. It was always in public, and it would humiliate him terribly. Some of my worst memories from childhood are of him crying in public because his father simply wouldn’t leave him alone. It was awful to watch.” Phyllis paused at this, suddenly overcome with the memory of Thomas crying hysterically on the floor of the clock shop below the Barrow’s attic home, his hands pressed over his ears and tears dripping down his flushed cheeks as his father shouted down the house around him. 

Margret had watched at Phyllis’ side, growing more and more flushed with embarrassment and fear as Thomas had continued to sob. 

Thomas had been absent from the school the next day. Phyllis had watched Margret walk to school alone, her younger brother Daniel trailing behind after her with a wistful expression upon his face. Daniel had kept on glancing over his shoulder, making to stop only to be tugged along by Margret. 

_“But why isn’t Tommy coming?”_ Daniel had demanded, his voice carried on the wind so that Phyllis had heard it from her mothers’ sitting room window where she’d kept time mending dress patterns. _“Why won’t papa let him come?”_

_“Because Thomas has to mind the shop- hurry up Danny or you’ll make us late!”_

Thomas had never gone back to school after that. 

“… I see.” Joseph said; Phyllis was jerked back to the present, to watch as Thomas continued to stroll along the garden path. It was odd to remember that crying boy, and then see the stern man before her. It made Phyllis feel a sudden swelling sense of…pride. “One of those sort.” 

“Yes.” Phyllis said, “So you see, when Thomas is difficult to me, you ought to look at it like a brother being sharp with his sister. Because that’s how we view it.” Phyllis explained, “We’re practically siblings.” 

“Well I don’t think that siblings should be cruel to one another-“ Joseph snapped. 

“He’s not cruel, Mr. Moseley.” Phyllis said, “He’s just lost and confused; and he’s becoming more lost and confused by the day.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Phyllis sighed, knowing good and well Thomas was going to lose his mind when he found out Phyllis had told Joseph the sorry tale behind his courtship of Daisy Mason. At the same time she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

“Do you remember when I told you that he was ill?” Phyllis asked, “Do you remember how… haggard… he used to look?” 

Joseph did not speak for a moment, summoning the past interaction to memory. 

“I do.” Joseph said, “He certainly looked… peaky.” 

“He was peaky.” Phyllis snorted, though ‘peaky’ was hardly the word for it. She caught Joseph’s eye. “I’m about to tell you a secret, Mr. Moseley… something Thomas would never want me to tell you.” 

Joseph waited, his eyes alert and his breath tense. 

“Thomas went to London to pursue conversion therapy.” Phyllis explained. Joseph’s brow furrowed, “To … change him. To make him more like other people. Other men.” 

For a moment, Joseph said nothing, coming to terms with Phyllis’ words; the larger his eyes grew the more Phyllis knew her words had sunk in. As if they were being swallowed whole by his pupils. 

“He never did.” Joseph murmured. 

Phyllis nodded, “He submitted himself to horrific procedures. Electric shocks and injections… drugs, pills, practically anything to try and be different. But the injections were unsterile and they gave him an abscess that Dr. Clarkson had to tend to. That was only after he finally cracked and told me the truth- he was a broken man when he came to me.” 

“I can imagine.” Joseph murmured, his eyes now locked on the back of Thomas’ head as he walked on with Daisy. “What did Dr. Clarkson say? Will he heal?” 

“Well you can see he’s still limping.” Phyllis gestured; from behind Thomas they were given an excellent view of his odd gait. While his left side was smooth, his right knee jerked just a little too much. He looked like he could do with Mr. Bates’ cane. 

“I see.” 

“He’s got a wound on his right hip.” Phyllis explained, though she knew full well that the term ‘arse’ would have been more on the mark. She was open for speaking to Joseph Moseley about a whole host of subjects; Thomas Barrow’s arse was not one of them. “That’s where he was injecting himself, where the abscess was. Dr. Clarkson tended to it, but it’s still mending. Unfortunately that’s not the worst of it.” 

“God, I shudder to imagine what else could befall the man.” Joseph snorted, though he was far from humored and Phyllis could understand why. Despite Thomas’ nasty reputation downstairs, Phyllis had a feeling none of the staff would wish ill upon Thomas’ head.

… Most of the time. 

“Don’t react. I don’t want him to hear you.” Phyllis urged; Joseph pursed his lips at once, “But he’s managed to convince himself that he has feelings for Daisy when he obviously can’t. What’s worse, Daisy is convinced that she has feelings for him to.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve caught them kissing.” 

Joseph spluttered in spite of himself, eyes going wide again as he watched Thomas and Daisy walk arm in arm with newfound trepidation. 

“He- he what?!” Joseph demanded, growing angry as he watched Daisy lean a little into Thomas’ touch; her face was upcast, smiling as Thomas spouted off what must have been a quip. 

“I think he wants to be loved, to be a normal man-“ Phyllis hurried on, eager to keep Joseph’s voice down lest he catch Thomas’ attention. In such a moment, that would be disastrous, “To have a family and a cottage- I think he truly envies all Mr. Bates has.” 

“Well- I understand the feeling but- Daisy!” Joseph gawped the name. 

“She’s just as influenced as he is.” Phyllis warned, “Neither of them are at fault. It’s the blind leading the blind, Mr. Moseley… a right mess.” 

“I can see that.” Joseph gritted his teeth, “What should we do?” 

“I’m unsure, and that’s why I’ve spoken to you.” Phyllis admitted. Joseph considered their options in silence, his jaw un-tensing as he thought through each scenario, “I’m on the verge of going to Mrs. Hughes.” Phyllis admitted. 

“You ought to before this madness spins any further out of control!” Joseph agreed at once, and the firmness in his voice gave Phyllis strength. She latched onto his arm a little tighter, reveling in the gladness it brought her when Joseph held her back and squeezed her hand. 

“Thank you for speaking to me about this.” Joseph added, “I’m glad I know what’s going on now.” 

“You make me brave, Mr. Moseley.” Phyllis paused, a light heat suddenly flooding her cheeks. 

“I shall always strive to do so, Ms. Baxter.” Joseph paused, leaning to whisper in her ear.  
Phyllis blush grew even stronger. She could not help but smile. 

~*~

Upon returning home from the Wallace Collection, their group of four divided and split to carry on with the rest of the day. For some reason Moseley kept giving Thomas weird looks now which he accredited to whatever conversation he'd been carrying on with Phyllis. It might have troubled him further, making him wonder what Phyllis had said, but there was so much to be done that Thomas had no choice but to put his ponderings aside to pick up the slack from his impromptu stroll with Daisy. Back and forth Thomas went, keeping a handle on the oversized collection of staff and volunteer workers akin to Andy who'd only been called on for the wedding and would be dismissed soon after. Andy himself was no where to be seen for the better part of the day, engrossed in the menial labor of footmen until well after dark when the family had finished supper and were holding court in the sitting room. Thomas was completely engrossed in his work, inventory at the ready to deliver to Mrs. Hughes the updated stocks for Friday's wedding, but as he whipped around the corner of the hallway he was momentarily thrown off track by the sound of Andy pleading from the servant's hall. 

Thomas paused, his ears pricking up at the sound of Denker’s whining drawl as well. 

“Go on… it’s no fun on my own.” 

Thomas turned, and found Denker clad in hat and jacket clearly ready for a night out on the town with Andy still in his livery and desperately looking for a way out. Thomas paused, inventory still in hand, eyes narrowing as he watched Andy sweat and stutter against Denker’s pressing insistence. 

“But you never talked to me from the time we got there!” Andy bleated, eyes wide as he pleaded with her. Denker would not be swayed, scowling as Andy rocked nervously on the balls of his feet back and forth. 

“Go and get changed.” Denker grumbled. Andy sighed, skulking off right past Thomas; as they brushed shoulders in the hallway, Thomas noted that Andy looked truly miserable. 

His patience was dashed. Thomas stepped forward, catching Denker’s attention as she picked at a spot on her coat and looked smugly about the room. 

“Why are you bullying him, Ms. Denker?” Thomas asked. Denker pursed her pruning lips, marking him for a threat. “Can’t you pick on someone your own age?” 

“He’ll have fun when he gets there.” Denker sneered, un eager to get drawn into an argument with Thomas. Thomas cared nothing for her nerves, his mind focused on how miserable and forlorn Andy had looked at the prospect of spending another night out with Denker. 

“Maybe.” Thomas scowled, “But I expect you’re a bad influence all the same.” 

“Then I suspect we have something in common, Mr. Barrow.” Denker snapped right back, forcing an unexpected laugh from Thomas’ lips. Denker stormed right past him, leaving Thomas in a stir of fading perfume and mothballs. 

It reminded him of his gran and made him shudder.  
“Cheeky.” He muttered under his breath. 

 

One hour passed, and then another, until ten o’clock was nearly upon them and Mr. Carson was in fits over Denker and Andy’s continued disappearance. Seeking solace in the kitchens, Thomas sat with Moseley and Phyllis while Daisy continued to add last minute details to Lady Rose’s enormous wedding cake. It had seven layers, covered with flowers whose sugary crystals glittered in the dim light; Mrs. Patmore continued to thumb through recipes, Thomas could not help but notice the gloom Daisy inhabited as she puttered about the kitchen, looking sour and sulky as she continued to paint details upon the petals of pink flowers. He watched her carefully, noticing every jerky movement of her hand that ought to be fluid given the delicate nature of her task at hand. 

Mrs. Patmore noticed to, and spoke on it. 

“How was the Wallace Collection, Daisy?” Mrs. Patmore asked, piling her sauce recipes in a neat little stack as Daisy continued to sulk at the foot end of the kitchen island. 

“Wonderful.” Daisy grumbled, as if recounting a death march instead of a pleasant outing. 

“Well if it was so wonderful then why have you been in a gloom since you got back?” Patmore demanded, seeing straight through Daisy’s flimsy disguise. Daisy was looking more put out by the second, unable to put Mrs. Patmore off or hide from her advances. It was almost reminiscent of Andy being bullied by Denker. Patmore walked around the island, grabbing another handful of recipes to smack them down onto the island table. 

“It showed me what I’ve been missing. Before I started studying I thought history, art, or anything like that were only for the family, not for us.” 

Moseley was getting nervous again, and Thomas could not blame him. Technically Moseley had taken on the role of primary tutor in the absence of Miss Bunting, and Daisy’s gloom seemed to be a direct result of his outing. He set his teacup down upon the island, trying to perk Daisy up with a warm smile. 

“Yes but surely it’s a good thing if your horizons have expanded?” He offered. 

“In a way, but it’s shown me how empty my life’s been until now.” Daisy said, her voice unnervingly hard as she said the word ‘empty’. Thomas pursed his lips and caught Mrs. Patmore beginning to scowl at Daisy. He sipped his tea quietly, not wanting to put his foot into a conversation that was going downhill so dangerously fast. 

“You’ve learned a trade. You’re skilled. You’re an artist yourself. Look at this wedding cake.” Phyllis said. Daisy gave her a cold and withering look that was at great odds with her normal character. Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“And what for?” Daisy scowled, at the very suggestion, “So I can skivvy in a kitchen that isn’t even mine?” 

“Well, wasn’t it your plan to study so you could help run Mr. Mason’s farm?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, hand on hip, eager to steer their conversation back to the polite shores of normalcy. Daisy was having none of it. 

“But even if I do that, in the end, wouldn’t I be better studying here?” Daisy demanded, completely forgoing the wedding cake now to look Mrs. Patmore dead on. It was the kind of bravery very few were capable of if they knew the extent of Patmore’s wrath; Thomas found he was smiling in spite of himself. It was quite endearing to watch Daisy stand up for herself, “With galleries and libraries and theaters all around me? I could get a job in London, I know I could.” 

“I’m sure you could.” Patmore argued, but she didn’t sound too thrilled about it either way. Daisy had a gleaming look in her eye, a determined aura that practically crackled around her. Thomas watched entranced. 

“Then that’s it!” Daisy snapped, “I’ve made my mind up. I’m handing in my notice.” 

Patmore was flabbergasted.  
She made strange fluttering noises, taking her glasses off with a trembling hand. For once in her life, she was rendered speechless; Moseley and Phyllis were likewise floored, suddenly privy to a conversation that ought to be private between the two women. Thomas set down his teacup as quietly as he could, catching Phyllis’ eye from across the table. Phyllis sat her teacup down as well. 

The idea of Daisy leaving Downton was an odd one, something that Thomas had never before considered. The idea was so foreign to him, so bizarre, that it sprung up an entire well of scenarios and concepts he’d never before considered. Thomas didn’t know how he felt about it, didn’t want to think about it, and so he simply shut the problem out of his mind altogether until he could gain some privacy and rehash it out later. 

“You’ve been very good to me, Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy said, her voice growing thicker by the minute with emotion, “And I’ll be sad to say goodbye but I think it’s right.” 

She was about to cry; Thomas could hear it in her voice, could see it in her face. Her cheeks were flushing, her eyes sparkling; her bottom lip quivered. 

“Excuse me.” 

She jerked up from the table, leaving the wedding cake forgotten behind her, and fled from the kitchen before anyone could stop her. 

Thomas found himself following without knowing why. It was an instinctual urge to care for a friend, not comfort a lover, a strange demand inside of him that had once prodded him to look in on his little brother Daniel after a bad day at school or tend to Edward during a rant. He’d never seen Daisy cry save for when Lady Sybil had died… and Thomas had been crying then, himself. 

The telltale sound of the area door slamming took Thomas into the outer hallways, opening the door to the back step to find Daisy only a few feet off the stoop with her hands wrapped around her stomach as if she had a belly ache. 

Thomas closed the door hesitantly behind him, the soft sound of the latch clicking causing Daisy to look over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed and wet, her eyes sparkling with emotion as she kept her teeth firmly clamped against any cries that might attempt to sneak out.  
“Oh, Thomas!” 

Thomas knew it was coming even as it happened, but it still ended up surprising him as Daisy opened her arms from around her stomach and flung them about his neck. 

There wasn’t much he could say or do- suddenly Daisy was desperately seeking comfort from him in his arms and for the first time in his life since childhood he was put under the title of ‘protector’. Where he’d once comforted his little brother, he was suddenly caring for Daisy, and it shocked him to realize just how small she was in comparison to him. She could be no taller than five foot seven, a tiny waif of a thing that was almost swallowed into his hold as she buried her face in his chest. 

For a moment he simply held her in the outside area, quite content to let her cry in their solitude if it offered her any relief at all. She seemed utterly exhausted, ready to keel over from the wedding heyday and their earlier stroll out on the town. She wept into his neck, causing a pang of sympathy to echo through him. He let her cry without comment, holding her as best he could in such an awkward position. By the time her cries had subsided, her face was soaked; she pulled back, wiping her cheeks hastily. Thomas fished her a handkerchief from his pocket. She accepted it meekly, dabbing at her eyes as she sniffed. She was an utter wreck, completely at odds with her normal image of youthful optimism. 

“Thank you.” She said, her voice quite thick as if she was suffering from a head cold. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ She broke off, waving a hand only to let it collapse back to her side. 

Thomas understood; he reached out, gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“You’d like London.” Thomas admitted, looking up overhead to the stars that dotted the evening sky, “It’s to your style… but is it really what you want?” 

“No.” Daisy admitted with the tiniest whimper, “I just…Downton… I’m stuck.” She bleated the phrase like a kicked lamb, “I’m stuck!” And she began to cry again. She pressed herself into Thomas’ neck once more, sucking in breath after hitching breath in a desperate attempt to keep her tears muffled. 

How Thomas pitied her in the moment; completely understood where she was coming from. 

He knew what it felt like to be stuck, to want to leave Downton so badly it ached in his soul, to wake up everyday in his cot and liken it to a prison cell as he prepared his footman livery and stumbled downstairs for breakfast. He’d prayed that Philip would take him away, had jumped at the chance to serve abroad, and when he’d realized that his gamble in the black market wasn’t going to pay off Thomas had lost control in his rage. He’d torn apart that shed with every ounce of strength he possessed, ripping shelves right off the wall and screaming his lungs out in desperation to get away. 

So often he’d wanted to leave… so very often.  
But it just wasn’t to be, or so he’d come to realize. Downton Abbey was his very own personal hell, a purgatory invented to curb him of his sins.  
But Daisy had no sins. 

“It can feel like a tomb, I know.” Thomas agreed, mindlessly stroking her hair even while she sniffled into his neck. 

“I don’t want to be away from you.” Daisy whispered, her breath moistening his skin; Thomas grew still, his fingers pausing in Daisy’s hair. “I’d do anything for you. Even stay at Downton.” 

Thomas’ throat locked, odd emotion coursing through him.  
He’d never felt so fond of Daisy than in that moment. 

“I would never ask you to do that.” Thomas paused, “But if you did stay I’d help you… as much as I could. Every day. I could sneak you books from the master library.” 

“But I shouldn’t read them, they’re not mine.” Daisy whimpered, emotion clogging her voice yet again, “None of that will ever be mine because I’m just a _servant!”_ and suddenly she was howling into his neck, the real crook of the situation thrust upon her as she desperately struggled to accept just how bleak her situation was. She wanted up, she wanted out. She wanted to dance at parties in fine gowns like Lady Mary, or publish her thoughts in the newspaper like Lady Edith… she wanted gallant adventures like Lady Rose… or a massive house to preside over all her own like Lady Grantham. 

She wanted all these things, but could never have them. And it _infuriated_ Thomas. 

“Daisy, look at me.” Thomas pulled back, but Daisy clung to him, still crying into his neck. He struggled with her, using his grip to force her to look up into his face as he cupped her wet cheeks in his hands and brushed beneath her eyes with his thumbs. Daisy’s mouth was quivering, her lips wet and trembling as she desperately tried to control her emotions. 

Thomas gave her a moment to get a hold of herself, determined that she should listen to him and pay attention. Daisy sniffed several times, swallowing as Thomas continued to stroke beneath her eyes. Thomas looked her up and down, wary that she might burst into tears ago should he begin to speak; as his eyes shifted they momentarily fell upon his gloved hand… and suddenly he knew what to say. 

“When I was on the front line, in France, I was with Mr. Crawley.” Thomas said. Daisy’s breathing suddenly slowed, her lips beginning to fall still as she looked up to meet Thomas’ eyes. 

Thomas did not like talking about the war, but he would do so just this once for Daisy. 

“One night, I’d managed o scavenge tea; it was like nectar. He found me tucked away in a bloodied hiding hole, and we sat there and drank tea from a saucepan.” Thomas paused, unable to keep the short sharp laugh inside. It was hollow and tuneless, an odd guff of air more than anything else. Daisy was listening now raptly, no longer crying. 

“I made some quip about ‘what would my mother think, me entertaining the future Earl of Grantham to tea’. and he said ‘war has a way of distinguishing the things that matter from the things that don’t’… and he was right, Daisy.” Thomas feigned from mentioning just what those words had inspired him to do. 

Or rather, what two and a half years of crawling through bloated, rotting corpses had inspired him to do. 

“Class titles, distinguishing honors, petty rivalries, and all that _bullshit-“_ Thomas cursed, causing Daisy’s brown eyes to widen momentarily in shock at such foul language, “It does not matter. Nothing matters but the pursuit of happiness.” 

Daisy’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She seemed momentarily speechless. 

“If learning makes you happy, pursue it.” Thomas urged her, his voice lifting as he tried to inspire optimism in her. “Go into the library, pick out books, read them. If you can’t do it in the day, do it at night- hell you act like I won’t help you.” Thomas added. Daisy laughed in spite of herself, “You love to cook right?” Thomas asked. Daisy nodded, her head shifted against his hands, “Then cook, damnit!” it could almost have been scornful if he hadn’t been smiling and Daisy laughing, “So who cares if the kitchen isn’t yours, it doesn’t make it any less of a kitchen. Live your life. Quit dogging it because you’re not a duchess or a countess or who the hell else cares! You’re Daisy…” Thomas paused, “That’s… more than enough.” 

Daisy’s laughter trailed away, but her smile remained. 

_Fight your corner,_ Thomas wanted to urge her, _Damnit use your brain and fight your corner._  
“… You’re so brave.” Daisy whispered. “You never give up do you?” 

He smiled, taking strength in how she gazed at him with such adoration. 

“No, I don’t.” Thomas said. 

For a moment they simply looked at one another, Daisy swallowing again and again as she blinked her eyes clear of tears and waited for Thomas to do something. Thomas knew what she sought, what she needed, and gave it to heal her in that moment. To give her hope for the future as he wished someone had given him time and time again. He leaned in, using his hands to guide the angle of her face, and kissed her fully upon the mouth. 

It was not a bruised affair, something rushed and hot that left both parties panting and desperate for sexual release. It was not a kiss meant to inspire a joining; rather it was a joining in and of itself. Thomas took what little strength remained to him and poured it into Daisy, let it wrap around her like one might a blanket or a cocoon. He could not say when he first started why it was he felt so determined to protect her, to love her, save that he could see her dream dying in her eyes and he was once again _infuriated_ by it. He wanted her to thrive, to enjoy life, to pursue her dreams. 

He didn’t want her to end up with an abscess in her hip. 

Her hands were drifted, ghosting up his arms to come into his hair, and suddenly her fingertips were teasing his scalp so that several fronds of slicked hair fell loose of his Brilliantine hold. Her warm breath tickled his cheek, her lips slickening with saliva as Thomas cupped her jaw with his gloved hand and ever so cautiously kissed her deeper. 

She hesitated, bristling only slightly in his arms as a tiny shiver passed through her.  
Then, she opened her mouth. 

 

Thomas breathed in, practically setting Daisy through a spell as she suddenly clung to him with all the force she could muster, tighter and tighter as their lips, tongues, and teeth battled for control- Daisy tasted of tea and apples, of flowers in the fields on a mild summers day, and the dew beads that fell on wheat grass early in the morning. She tasted of innocence, of happiness, of everything Thomas had never possessed, and he was utterly greedy as he took it from her. 

Daisy’s hands were tight about him now, her breasts heaving as they flattened against his chest. One of Thomas’ hands was at her neck, anchoring her even as he plundered her mouth while another hand kept dropping steadily lower towards the small of her back- 

The back door banged open, and Daisy sprang back from Thomas as if she’d been shocked by a live wire, her hands flying to her mouth and her eyes wide in the gleaming light of the inner hallway. 

Thomas closed his eyes, briefly rubbing his mouth in an absent fashion as he turned to glower-  
at Phyllis Baxter. 

Who was glaring at Thomas as if she could set him ablaze. 

“Ms. Baxter!” Daisy was petrified, her hands still over her mouth, “Please don’t tell anyone, please-!” 

“Shh!” Phyllis pressed a finger to her lips, closing the back door behind her so that suddenly the three of them were plunged into gloom again. She glanced around, checking to see if anyone were witnessing their spat before offering a soothing hand to Daisy. “Relax, I won’t tell anyone anything… but I need to talk to Thomas alone.” 

Daisy looked to Thomas, her hands fluttering as they momentarily dropped from her mouth. She was afraid, unwilling to leave him alone to face criticism or scorn… but Thomas had endured both aplenty during his life and was afraid of neither. He winked at her, and felt quite smug at the tiniest breath she sucked it. A band of color was springing to life on her cheeks, a strange heat from residue of Thomas’ fervent kisses. Her lips were still swollen and slick, thoroughly kissed. He was mad for not feeling fear, mad for not worrying about what Patmore or Hughes might say if they saw Daisy’s face (the evidence would be too plain to deny). But Thomas could not help feeling absolute elation at the fact that he had not only kissed Daisy but had wanted to kiss Daisy. Had _wanted_ to kiss a woman- by god, what a triumph! 

 

Phyllis Baxter could yell at him till she was blue in the face; she wouldn’t be wiping the smug grin off. 

“I’ve got this handled, Daisy.” Thomas assured her, raising a taunting eyebrow to Phyllis whose face flushed a hardened crimson. Daisy seemed on the verge of saying something profound or deep, her breath hitching in her chest as she looked from Phyllis to Thomas. 

“Don’t worry.” The statement came from both him and Phyllis at the same time, much to his surprise, but the tones couldn’t have been more different. Phyllis was sincere and soothing, Thomas smug and controlled. 

Daisy nodded, looking rather absent as she gazed longingly at Thomas before slipping back inside. The door had barely shut behind her before Phyllis was upon him, practically breathing smoke for all her threatening demeanor. 

“…Thomas Nathaniel Barrow.” She hissed his full name like one might a curse, “What are you doing? What _are_ you doing?” 

“I am living my life-“ Thomas shrugged, his tone blaze and his facial expression that of mild disregard. It couldn’t have been in higher contrasts to his insides where he was practically skipping about with glee. 

He’d kissed a woman and _enjoyed it_ \- by god! He could climb a mountain right now, smoker’s lungs and all. 

London was a marvelous place. 

“You are lying to yourself!” Phyllis cried out, fuming as she paced back and forth. Her skirts swished about her ankles, a soft and soothing sound that Thomas could rock to as he bounced upon the balls of his feet. 

“Do not speak to me of lies, woman.” Thomas sneered, unable to keep the grin off his face even as he spoke, “You’re just as capable of them as I am- I love her-!” He declared it with joy but Phyllis shot him down with all the speed and dexterity of a seasoned shooter going after pigeons. 

“You’re mad!” She cried out, “Absolutely mad! Those pills have made you mad! You're _not_ interested in women, and you _cannot_ change that!” She said it with such finality, with such force, that Thomas momentarily had to wonder if she was right before reminding himself that he’d just kissed Daisy soundly on the mouth and enjoyed it. 

“I already have changed it!” He boasted, smug grin still in place much to Phyllis’ chagrin, “I changed it when I put myself through therapy. I changed it when I took those pills. I changed it when I took a chance and let myself feel something again- for her!” He boasted the ‘her’ a little too delightfully for Phyllis’ liking. Her brown eyes narrowed in distaste as she stopped in her tracks and rounded on him so that they were suddenly squaring up preparing for a fight. 

“Thomas.” She said his name with short and clear marking, a stake in the sand, “If you do not stop, if you do not stop this madness this very night, I will tell Daisy, Hughes, Patmore… everyone. Everything.” She paused, letting her words sink in before carrying on with that same cold tone, “I will tell them the whole bitter truth, and we’ll see how you like it.” 

Thomas couldn’t tell if she was bluffing or not.  
And suddenly he realized how O’Brian must have felt when she realized Thomas knew all her secrets and was no longer willing to hide him; a cold sinking dread that crawled through him and flooded his veins with ice… his hands were practically numb at his sides. 

For a moment there was nothing but the London night to make noise between them; the chirruping of crickets and the faint babble of crowds passing by overhead. 

“I’m not afraid of you.” Thomas said, though it wasn’t entirely true.  
He wasn’t afraid of Phyllis Baxter, but he certainly was afraid of the damage she could do. 

Phyllis nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. Whether or not she knew he was bluffing was beyond the point, Thomas realized, because whatever her mind was it was made up. She looked at him, cold and glaring, before finally unfolding her arms and turning for the door. 

“Break it off. Tonight.” Phyllis snapped, “Or your secret will no longer be safe with me.” 

And with that, she stepped back inside.  
Thomas stood there on the stoop for a good minute or so, tossed upon a churning sea of nerves, before he finally decided to follow after her back inside. 

 

He found Daisy in the servant’s hall, her face freshly washed and her eyes wide with worry as Thomas came round the bend in the corridor and approached her with a weary smile. 

_“Break it off, tonight.”_ he heard in his head.  
_‘Make me’_ his own voice snapped back. 

“What did she say?” Daisy asked, stepping incredibly close so that their arms were brushing together. Thomas felt the tug of her fingers upon his leather glove, her digits skirting its worn and feathered edge. 

“She’s threatening to do a bit of damage.” Thomas murmured, eager for no one else to overhear; there were a few maids around the table; Anna and Bates were taking up one corner no doubt chatting over their London house which they’d taken the opportunity to gleam up on earlier that day. “Wants to tell Mrs. Hughes… Mrs. Patmore.” 

“She’d never-!” Daisy gasped, her cheeks burning a bright pink with anger and derision. Thomas could not blame her; this was just as much her secret as it was his. 

“I’d never what?” 

Phyllis appeared at Thomas’ elbow, her expression cold and uncaring, but it melted like ice under the summer sun when Daisy approached her with a pained and emotional tinge- a beaten dog still wanting to be pet even if its owner was abusive. 

“Please, Ms. Baxter, you can’t be serious-“ Daisy begged, clasping her hands before her breast as if in prayer. Phyllis folded her arms over her chest again; a weirdly defensive move to take against Daisy who meant her no harm. 

“Daisy, there’s more to it than you know.” Phyllis warned, “And it’s not right to be carrying on like this- it’s-!” 

But whatever it was, the pair of them would never know, for all of a sudden a far off voice broke their heated conversation with glee; a gay and delightful lilt that bounced along the servant’s halls like bubbles in a champagne flute. 

_“Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day. As the streets are paved with gold, sure, everyone was gay, singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand, and Leicester Square, till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there..!”_

Thomas looked around, his eyes locked on the corridor to the outer hall; the voice was growing stronger with each note, like a gramophone being wound up to belt its chorus. 

“Wha’ was that?” Daisy asked, her Manchester accent slipping out amid her confusion. She was not the only one to notice; Bates and Anna had stopped their conversation flat out and were now looking in the same direction with wary expressions. The maids had paused their card game, unsure of what to say or do. 

“It’s a long way to Tipperary-“ Thomas muttered, for he knew the song well after his time in the trenches. 

“How did you know that?” Daisy asked. 

“Sang it in the trenches.” Thomas shrugged; he did not want to get into his war service with Daisy. With anyone, really. It made his hand ache, and he clenched his fingers into a fist without realizing it. 

“Then who’s singing it now?” Phyllis demanded, a very good question indeed given the fact that had Carson heard it he would have a conniption. 

The answer came in the form of Mrs. Denker, bursting through the corridor and into the servant’s hall with such gusto and glee that she could have sprung upon a London stage with the same effect; she threw her arms wide, her coat almost falling off her shoulders as she warbled with a loud belting voice, _“IT’S A LONG WAAAAAY TO TIPPERARYYYY-!”_

“Holy mother of god.” The words slipped out of Thomas’ mouth before he could stop them; Daisy burst out laughing, her voice intermingling with Denker’s who was now prancing about the hall like a deer despite her age and her beaten shoes. Thomas looked around, following her with his eyes, as she twirled ‘round the servant’s table touching each maid’s shoulder as she passed only to dazzle her fingers at Anna and Bates who were gaping thunderstruck. 

_“Goodbye, Piccadilly! Farewell, Leicester Square! It’s a long long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there!”_ Denker chorused; Daisy was practically in fits, and Thomas snorted as she buried her face in his shoulder, trying to hide her laughter for the sake of propriety. 

To be fair propriety didn’t stand one tenth of a chance with Denker carrying on like she was in a dance hall. 

The real humor for Thomas came in the form of Andy Parker, who’d crept into the servant’s hall after Denker wholly unnoticed and was now cowering along the back wall with his hands over his ears (as if that would help drowning Denker out). 

“Have a fun night, Andy?” Thomas asked, unable to resist the jab as Denker danced and twirled to Tipperary. 

“You don’t want to know.” Andy moaned into the wall. 

Fair enough, Thomas mused. He’d seen his fair share of raving drunks. 

“Is she drunk?” Daisy demanded; Thomas scoffed at this. 

“We left drunk behind six gins ago.” Thomas said, and Phyllis sneered in clear agreement and scorn as Denker came back around the table, pausing in her singing if only to grab onto a new dance partner- 

Which just happened to be Thomas. 

“You need a gin yerself me darlin’!” Denker cried, grinning blissfully as she threw an arm about his neck soundly separating him from Daisy who looked downright affronted. Bates had risen from his chair now, concerned as Denker grabbed onto Thomas where ever she could even as he crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. “You take yerself far too- _hck_ \- seriously! I bet ye’ could show a girl a good time-!” 

“Hey-!” Daisy cried out angrily.  
Thomas was not one to dabble in greener pastures; he uncrossed his arms to reach behind his neck and unlace Denker from around his neck as one might a collar. 

“Either way you’ll never know.” Thomas warned. Denker made a spew of scoffing noises, rebuked but eager to get on with her good time. 

“Well _bully_ fer you!” Denker cried out. 

“What _is_ this nonsense-!?” 

Thomas looked around, nearly breaking into a laugh himself when he saw Carson towering in the door to the inner hall; he was a pillar of propriety, refusing to be toppled despite Denker’s good time. 

This was a battle worth getting an up close seat for. Thomas wished he had a bag of peanuts to go along with it. 

“C’mon-“ Denker was still trying to work her magic on Thomas; he had to hand it to her, she didn’t give up easily, “I bet ye were a soldier, weren’t you lamb-“ 

“Yes I was.” Thomas said, struggling to control his facial expression as Denker leaned heavily into him and practically nuzzled into his neck. He tried to untangle her once or twice, but simply couldn’t get away. She was like a python, wrapping about him with every moment that he tried to escape. 

“I bet ye know the rest of the song, then!” Denker teased, to which Thomas could only just keep down a laugh. If she was about to sing ‘That’s the wrong way to tickle Mary’ Carson was going to have another heart attack. 

“What is the meaning of this-!?” Carson demanded of Thomas, stuck somewhere between shock that rendered him speechless and anger that demanded he do something to make Denker stop. 

Thomas doubted even Carson could keep Denker down at this point, but he tried his best to sooth for the sake of Carson’s blood pressure. 

“We’re legless, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, though that went without saying at this point. Denker was practically climbing atop him even as he tried to get her to stop. “I think you’d better tell the Dowager she’s too ill to service-“ 

Carson watched her throw her arms around Thomas’ neck even as Thomas undid her clasp again and ducked down to escape- she rebounded, grabbing him around the waist instead- 

“I’ve never seen such disgusting behavior in all my days!” Carson snarled; Andy winced in the corner, looking eager for the floor to swallow him up. He’d do better in a sink hole than against Carson’s wrath, this Thomas was certain of. Carson rounded on his heel, storming back up the inner corridor towards the stairs to the upper floors; Andy was still hiding the corner, too green to see an opportunity when it was presented. 

“Run, Andy.” Thomas ordered, “Run far away.” 

“D’you think I should?” Andy asked, clearly considering it as he watched Denker hug onto Thomas with clear embarrassment. 

“ ‘For Carson comes back, run fer your life!” Thomas urged him, his Stockport accent slipping, “Just head ‘round the back, and I’ll try and calm him down-“ 

Andy did not need to be told twice; he bolted for the outer corridor only to skid to a stop and cry out over his shoulder, “Yer’ an angel!” And then he was gone. 

Angel indeed, Andy was in for a nasty surprise. 

“Alright, woman.” Thomas warned as Denker threw another arm around his neck, unable to curb his accent for his irritation, “I’ve got as good a sense of humor as any man but yer wearin’ on me patience-“ 

And suddenly Carson was back only to see Thomas trying to escape Denker again; now Phyllis was helping, peeling Denker off from around Thomas’ neck even as he ducked down to try and get out of her grip. She just ducked with him, nearly taking Phyllis too- Thomas could hear Bates snickering in the corner, unable to keep it in for the humor of it all. 

Well at least someone was getting a laugh out of this. 

“I’ve told the Dowager-“ Carson pronounced to the room though no one was really paying any attention to him at this point. They were all watching Thomas and Denker fight it out, “Now where’s that Parker boy-?!” 

“It’s not his ruddy fault, Mr. Carson-!” Thomas snarled, eager to help Andy even as he fought against Denker. She was trying to twirl him around, trying to get him to dance; Thomas was ten seconds away from falling to the floor and simply laying there like a log if it got her to stop and back the hell off, “Y’can’t control a drunk-!” 

And suddenly Denker was off him, stepping right around him to grab onto Daisy with glee. Daisy had no chance to defend herself, and she cried out in shock as Denker grabbed her by the hand and twirled her hard around. 

_“That's the wrong way to tickle Mary, that's the wrong way to kiss. Don't you know that over here, lad, they like it best like this-!”_ Denker sang, warbling the tune to Tipperary in a delightful jig only to pause mid chorus and kiss Daisy promptly upon the cheek. Daisy screamed, and propriety be damned leapt away from Denker to hide soundly behind Thomas. Thomas cut Denker off with an arm before she could follow Daisy, promptly blocking Daisy’s path so that Daisy could press her face into his back; Thomas could practically feel the heat on her face despite the several layers of livery he wore. 

“Oh my god-“ Daisy moaned into his jacket, her voice muffled by his livery. 

“Ms. Denker you will control yourself this instant!” Carson barked, his shocked silence effectively shattered by the sight of two women kissing. 

But Denker wasn’t listening and neither was anyone else. Thomas, thriving in the chaos, caught Carson’s eye and pronounced the end for him (after all, wasn’t that what under-butler’s were for?).

“It’s the end, Mr. Carson.” Thomas sneered, suddenly Anna and Bates were laughing outright, unable to keep it down with Thomas egging Carson on and Denker dancing a jig, “The British monarchy has fallen. Order and civilization are in collapse, save the children while you can-“ 

“Not another word from you!” Carson snarled, pointing a vindictive finger at Thomas and effectively shutting him up. 

Denker was twirling around Thomas and Daisy both, circling them like a maypole with all the gayety of a girl three times her junior. 

_“Hooray pour Les Français, Farewell Angleterre.We didn't know how to tickle Mary,  
But we learnt how over there-!”_ Denker finished the song in bawdy fashion and before Thomas could stop her she leaned right in and grabbed his bicep with lewd glee, squeezing his arm suggestively only to run her hands over his muscles as one might stroke a favorite dog. “Ooh my you are a gorgeous man-“ 

Thomas bowed his head, speechless.  
Carson, however, had plenty to say. 

“The audacity of it!” Carson spewed, fuming as he paced back and forth, “The gaul! I won’t have such indecency in his lordship’s house-!” 

It was getting him no where; Denker wasn’t listening and frankly neither was anyone else. With Daisy hiding in his jacket and Denker still groping his arm like he was her fancy man while Phyllis tried her best to pull him away from both women with his lone free arm, Thomas straightened up to look Carson in the face and mustered the calmest voice he could manage. 

“Go up, Mr. Carson.” Thomas grumbled, “I’ll handle this.” 

“See that you do!” Carson spat, completely at his wits end as he shook another vindictive finger in Thomas’ neutral face. “Or you’ll be in the same boat as her-!” he added, jerking his finger to Denker who was almost rubbing her face into his arm now. 

“A fun boat to be in-“ Thomas mused under his breath; god only knows he’d been sober for far too long and could remember the delights of being drunk. 

“Thomas Barrow, I will hear none of it!” Carson roared. Thomas just nodded his head, unshaken. 

Really, what could Carson do? Propriety was dancing a drunken jig and rubbing on Thomas like a cat in heat. Carson left, storming up the hall as fast as he could manage (which was surprisingly fast for someone Carson’s size), and Thomas was left to deal with Denker. 

But before Thomas could start, Andy poked his head back into the hall just in time to see Denker nuzzling Thomas’ bicep. 

“God save me.” Andy moaned from the hallway. 

“It’s like the outer circle of Dante’s inferno-!” Phyllis was still trying to pull Thomas loose and getting absolutely no where. Thomas had stopped helping her by this point and was simply glaring at the room with a dry and listless expression. He’d resigned himself to his fate. He didn’t even care anymore. 

“The _outer_ circle?” Anna managed in between laughs, hands clapped tightly over her mouth, “Oh _Thomas_ your _face-!”_

Thomas merely blinked. 

“You know where we need to go, you and I?” Denker suddenly spoke up, and once more all eyes were on her to see what she’d do or say next. She leaned right up into Thomas’ face; he pulled back with a grimace at the smell of gin and sherry coating her mouth. “The Criterion-!” 

And suddenly Thomas’ stomach dropped. 

“Aha!” Thomas jerked his free hand from Phyllis’ helping grasp, now fighting as hard as he could to get Denker off of him before she could say another word, “Let’s not go that far!” 

Phyllis look of alarm was one shared by both Anna and Bates; Thomas knew exactly why. You couldn’t censor a drunk. If she said something now, no one would be able to stop her, and there were four maids in the room to bear witness to it, not to mention Andy and Daisy. 

“I think you need to calm down-“ Phyllis snapped to Denker, a finger in her face, “You need to calm down-!” 

Denker’s response to this was to let go of Thomas entirely if only to grab onto Phyllis and twirl her hard; Phyllis was thin and waif like, unable to keep her balance or keep up with Denker. She nearly fell into the table; Thomas caught her with dexterous hands and pulled Phyllis away before she could come into harm. Suddenly Thomas was effectively in another sandwich, with Daisy pressed into his back and Phyllis to his front. 

To be fair, this sandwich wasn’t one he minded entirely. He’d much rather the pair of them were safe with him then at the mercy of a drunken Denker. 

But it seemed Denker had bigger plans that Tipperary jigs. Now she’d moved onto another subject: the Criterion. 

“Ferget the girls-!” Denker waved a hand at Thomas in a wide wild arc. Thomas’ eyes grew wide, a terrible cold feeling sinking into his stomach, “Ye could give all those flow’ry boys a run fer their money- I know your sort-!” 

“You need to shape up and remember yerself-!” Thomas warned hotly, his Stockport accent slipping again in his fear. Anna and Bates were no longer laughing. 

“Don’t try and deny it!” Denker crowed, slapping a knee as she laughed it all off, “You’re as lavender as a flower bed-!” 

“Mr. Barrow I am _so sorry-!”_ Andy wailed from the outer corridor; he wasn’t the only one mortified. Thomas felt the blood rush hot and hard to his face, no doubt turning his cheeks crimson with shame as Denker just laughed and laughed. His heart was pounding in chest; his hands were shaking. 

“Thomas, you better go upstairs now and help Mr. Carson-“ Anna spoke up from the corner. Phyllis couldn’t agree more, now detaching herself from Thomas to pull him soundly away from Daisy; she was attempting to shepherd him towards the door to the inner corridor. 

“Yes, go. Go.” Phyllis begged. Thomas took a step, almost free, but suddenly Denker was back and grabbing him hard around the waist. Thomas yelped like a kicked dog, totally taken aback and suddenly unable to escape as she struggled to pull Denker off his waist. 

“Oh why is everyone so stiff, it’s not like it’s a big deal!” Denker scorned them all. Thomas groaned in shame, hands flying to his face. Bates was coming around the table now, hobbling as fast as he could to aid Thomas in detaching him from Denker. “Lavenders make for a damn good time! I bet ye anything this one could make a party turn-!” She grabbed Thomas’ hips. 

He’d had enough. 

“Let me go!” Thomas snarled, and he jerked _hard_ away from Denker just as Bates pushed them forcibly apart. The combined motion was enough to set Thomas free, and suddenly Thomas was hiding behind Bates, using his girth like a shield as he hid his face in shame. His cheeks were _burning_ beneath his fingers. 

“You can’t just say things like that out loud!” Andy was shrieking from the outer corridor, “What is wrong with you, woman?” 

“You need to calm down.” Bates was snarling at Denker, keeping her from getting at Thomas with surprisingly skill despite his cane and bad leg. “You need to remember yourself and _calm down.”_

“Oh relax-“ Denker sneered at Bates, “Don’t pretend like it’s a secret; everyone knows he’s a lavender. It’s not like it’s hard to figure out, look at him he’s practically a woman himself, the little sod-!” 

“I’m not a lavender!” Thomas shouted. 

“Oh don’t sell me a dog, and don’t get poked up!” Denker scowled, “You could light up a man’s night with that sauce box of yours! Yer a damn lavender and everyone knows it!” 

The maids were speechless a this point, hands over mouths and clinging to one another as they looked wide eyed from Thomas to Denker.

Thomas’ temper hit a boiling point; he lunged at Denker only to be blocked by Bates who kept a firm barrier between them. 

“Let it go, Thomas, she’s a drunk.” Bates snapped over his shoulder. 

“She’s about te be a cold drunk, the lousy floater! I’ll batty-fang her if she keeps it up! I dun even care if she’s a church-bell! The damn whooperup! ” Thomas barked, his Stockport accent flying all over the place in his embarrassment and anger. 

“What’s a lavender?” Daisy asked, utterly confused from behind Phyllis.  
The blood suddenly drained from Thomas face, the end clear as Denker turned on Daisy with a sneer. 

“Well ye see, darlin’, when two men love each other very much-!” Denker started, but suddenly three separate voices cut her off before she could say a word, effectively drowning her out and cutting off whatever horrid tale she’d been about to tell Daisy. 

“That’s enough, woman!” Bates snarled, suddenly sounding well and truly angry. 

“Stop it!” Anna cried out from the corner. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“You need to calm down!” Phyllis yelled, pushing down with her hands as if to smother Denker’s drunken glee with physical force, “You can’t just say those things!” 

“Go, Thomas.” Bates snapped. “Go now, before she starts again-“ 

Thomas fled, more from shame and embarrassment than command to Bates’ words, Denker’s vile chorus of words bouncing around his skull like dice in a cup: 

_“You could light up a man’s night with that sauce box of yours! Yer a damn lavender and everyone knows it!”_

~*~

“Why are all the good looking ones taken or lavenders-“ Denker complained loudly at Thomas’ sudden departure; Daisy had no sympathy for her with that comment, quite affronted at how she’d hung about Thomas like she owned him. Like he were a light post and she a drowning rat in need of a tall place to hide from rising waters. Her lips were still tingling from his prior kisses, despite how she’d scrubbed her face with determination to keep her state from Mrs. Patmore or Mrs. Hughes. Now Ms. Baxter was far from focused on Daisy, instead burning crimson with anger and yelling at Ms. Denker to calm herself (though it was doing very little good) while Mr. Bates kept a firm block in front of the door to the inner hall so that Denker could not follow Thomas out. She seemed half a mind to- as if hoping to give chase and torment some more. 

“Honestly it’s not like he’s foolin- _hck_ \- anyone!” Denker sneered, waving a hand wildly through the air in dismissal of Thomas. Daisy had no idea what to make of this situation anymore; Denker was a rambling rabid drunk and suddenly she wished Mr. Carson would return if only to put a stop to this nonsense. “God only knows he’s as queer as Oscar Wilde-“ 

“That’s enough!” Ms. Baxter barked, her tone shocking and sharp compared to her normal calm lilt. She grabbed a maid named Alice by the arm, pushing her towards the corridor to the kitchens before she could question Denker’s foaming antics. “Go get Mrs. Hughes, hurry!” 

Daisy could not agree more.  
Alice scurried off at once, as fast as lightening as she began to comb the halls for Mrs. Hughes; Daisy prayed she’d find her fast. 

“Oh you people are a bunch of stiffs- we need another round of Tipperary-“ Denker started up again, even as Mrs. Bates and Ms. Baxter both moaned in protest; Mr. Bates put a hand to his brow as if he had a headache coming on. _“It’s a long way to Tipperary-!”_ Denker chorused, started to jig about again. But where before Mr and Mrs. Bates had laughed now there was only cold and ugly silence from clear embarrassment and anger. For some reason Denker’s comments about Thomas seemed to have shocked them, drug them out of their gayety and back to a nasty sober state that left no room for Denker’s antics. Daisy appreciated their stance, likewise feeling a great deal of irritation towards Denker for clearly embarrassing Thomas so _much._

Thomas did not like to be made a mockery of; he was stoic and strong, silent in his command for authority and respect among the lower staff. To be jeered at so openly had been an ugly thing to witness, and it had sucked all the humor away from Daisy’s mood. 

But the tingling of a bell broke everyone’s focus on Denker, the sudden remembrance that there was a wealthy family above their heads with needs to be tended to; Ms. Baxter’s face was set in a firm scowl as she made to move for the inner corridor. Mr. Bates stepped aside at once to let her pass. Denker was coming around the table though, jigging and giggling like a school girl even as everyone scowled at her. 

“Oh!” Denker sing-songed, “I must get to my lady-!” 

“No, I’m doing it.” Ms. Baxter snapped, “Mr. Carson’s told her you’re ill.” and with that she was gone, vanishing into the inner corridor before Denker could follow or make another comment. 

“Ill!” Denker laughed at this, as if it was the silliest accusation in the word. 

And suddenly Mrs. Hughes entered from the outer corridor with Alice and Andy Parker, both of whom looked cowed and unnerved at Denker’s behavior. Mrs. Hughes was furious, her weathered cheeks sucking in as she held back a snappy retort to Ms. Denker’s boorish behavior. Daisy stepped back at once, eager to give Mrs. Hughes a wide berth as she surveyed the situation. If anyone could save them, it was her. 

“Really, Ms. Denker!” Mrs. Hughes barked, utterly ashamed at the entire display. 

“Ooh!” Denker giggled, straightening up like a soldier at his post. 

“And in front of the maids too!” Hughes gestured, silently dismissing them, and the gaggle of girls instantly fled from the servant’s hall to slip behind Mrs. Hughes and into the hall towards the kitchen 

“Well who gives a tinker’s curse about the maids?” Denker sneered, utterly uncaring. 

“Right, that’s quite enough of that.” Mrs. Hughes spat, but before she could add another retort to Denker she noticed Andy hiding behind Alice (despite the fact that Alice was five foot seven at best and Andy was a towering six foot two.) “And as for you, where have you been?” 

“You don’t want to know.” Andy groaned, raising his hands in absolute shameful surrender. Mrs. Hughes took pity on him, or as much as she could given the circumstances. 

“Oh, put on your livery and get up to the drawing room.” She snapped; Andy fled from the hall without another word. 

“Now the green horn runs!” Denker cat called after Andy, “He’s worse than that lavender boy-“ 

Mrs. Hughe’s went wide at the term ‘lavender boy’, her nostrils flaring in absolute anger. Daisy had no idea what ‘lavender’ meant, but she could tell it was meant to be an insult and one that no one had taken kindly to when it was directed at Thomas. She’d ask Mrs. Patmore later, but for now she was determined to keep the situation from spiraling if she could. 

“Maybe if I made her some coffee it might sober her up a bit.” Daisy offered. 

“Anything’s worth a try.” Mrs. Hughes ground out, looking quite close to ringing the police should Denker’s behavior deteriorate anymore. 

Daisy did not need telling twice. She ran for the kitchen, almost stumbling twice upon the stone as she bolted for the stove range. 

Mrs. Patmore was slumped at the side desk where a few recipes were still scattered about and covered in flour; Daisy barely paid her any mind as she snatched a jar of coffee grinds to fetched a kettle to fill at the sink. 

She paused mid filling as she heard sniffling from Mrs. Patmore’s corner, finally glimpsing the tell-tale tracks of tears upon Mrs. Patmore’s plump cheeks as Daisy set the kettle upon the stove. 

She stopped, coffee and Denker momentarily forgotten; her heart fluttered in her breast as she realized Mrs. Patmore was whimpering pitifully into a handkerchief. 

“Mrs. Patmore!” Daisy cried out, agog, “What ever’s the matter?” 

“Don’t mind me-“ Patmore whimpered into her handkerchief, unable to even raise her head. 

“Tell me-“ Daisy urged. 

“No, it wouldn’t be fair-“ 

“Fair to who?” 

“To you, you daft ha’porth!” Daisy couldn’t pretend she was irked to hear the insult when she prayed it would lift Mrs. Patmore’s gloom, but Mrs. Patmore looked far from soothed, sniffling and blubbering even as more tears fell down her cheeks. 

“I don’t understand.” Daisy couldn’t imagine this night getting any crazier. First she’d passionately locked lips with Thomas who was usually so stoic and calm even in the grips of romance, then Denker had turned the servant’s hall into a bar hop, now Patmore was wailing by the stove- what next? Carson asking Hughes to wed? 

“I am crying because I don’t want you to leave-!” Patmore wailed out loud, no longer attempting to hide her face in her handkerchief, as the tears spilled down her cheeks, “I’ll miss you-!” 

Daisy’s heart throbbed painfully, a sudden burning wave of affection rising up for Mrs. Patmore, for the woman who was practically her mother in lieu of her own absent one. 

“Don’t- Don’t concern yourself-“ Patmore looked away, burying her face in her handkerchief again before any more tears could stain her gray blouse, “I’ll get over it-“ 

Daisy swallowed, her heart hammering in her breast as she realized that now if ever would be the time to tell Mrs. Patmore, the time to lift her spirits and assuage her fears. 

“But I’m not going to leave, Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy said, “Really, I’m not.” 

“No, you want to leave to pursue your studies-“ Patmore blubbered into her handkerchief. 

“But that’s just it!” Daisy’s heart throbbed again, her hands trembling even as she clasped them tight, “I can still do that at Downton, I’ll just get Thomas to help me nick books from the library- I bet he can even sneak me into the gallery on the third floor-“ 

She hadn’t even thought to ask Thomas about the gallery; she resolved to do so as soon as possible. 

“Wha-?” Patmore lifted her head from her handkerchief even as she wiped hurriedly at her many tears, “Why would he do that?” 

“Because we’re in love.” Daisy pronounced.  
Patmore stared, unblinking. 

She opened her mouth, suddenly looking quite horrified despite Daisy’s happy declaration, but before she could say another word Mrs. Hughes appeared at the threshold to the corridor with a scowl upon her face. 

“Forget the coffee.” Mrs. Hughes griped at Daisy; she instantly took the kettle off the stove to pour out the water in the sink, “She’s gone up, thank the Lord. We should go, too-“ Mrs. Hughes added to Mrs. Patmore as an afterthought. 

“What…” Mrs. Patmore was still looking at Daisy in fear, “What did you say? Just now? About Thomas?” 

Mrs. Hughes looked confusedly from Patmore to Daisy, waiting to hear Daisy’s response. 

Daisy’s heart throbbed again in a nervous beat, suddenly feeling very child-like before the two elderly women. Still, she knew her heart. She knew how she felt; and she certainly knew how Thomas felt. 

So why hide? 

“We’re in love.” Daisy said. 

Mrs. Hughes went white. Mrs. Patmore was rendered utterly speechless.  
Daisy carried on, determined to keep a brave face. 

“I’m not afraid to say it.” She assured them both, “We’re both adults, we can make our own decisions. We’re happy with one another, and that’s flat…” She paused, nodding at this as she undid her apron and hung it up on the wall hook, “I feel mighty brave saying that.” 

And with that she left the kitchen. 

Hughes and Patmore stared after her, horrified at her sudden declaration. 

Hughes looked to Patmore, her face still quite white. “Did she just…” 

“Oh my god-“ Patmore whispered, her face blotchy and bloodless as she looked up to Mrs. Hughes. 

Their terrible interlude was broken by none other than Phyllis Baxter who stood with teacup in hand, a silent witness to the entire exchange. They were a trio of fainting fancies, each of them looking from one to the other. 

Phyllis Baxter broke the silence, teacup rattling on its saucer as she pronounced her plea: “I can explain.” 

~*~

Like many a battered servant before him, Thomas found his solace and saving grace in the upstairs halls, stalking behind Carson as the pair of them desperately tried to undo Denker’s damage while simultaneously keeping order in the drawing room. They could hear her cawing and screeching from the halls as she made her way up to bed, putting John McCormack to shame as she lilted to Tipperary. 

Every time Thomas heard her voice, another hot welt of burning shame flew up inside of him. He’d been called out several times in his life, but never by a woman, and he suddenly wished that Denker was a man so he could at least land a good punch for her cat-calling. 

Instead he had to assume the ‘servants blank’, keeping his face as neutral as possible while Carson oversaw the drawing room and bade him to guard the door lest Denker attempt to get through. Only a few of the men were left in the drawing room now; everyone else had gone to bed. 

Mercifully by the time the family was helping themselves to coffee from the side car, Denker’s voice had drifted off and Carson seemed none the worse for wear. He raised a bushy eyebrow to Thomas, a clear sign of _‘Where is that Parker boy?’_

Thomas glanced at the door, his eyes sliding back to Carson’s face.  
Carson bowed his head, silently gliding around the outer edge of the drawing room to exit through the door; Thomas followed swiftly after. 

As they made their way down the stairs to the servant’s quarters, Carson hissed every insult known to man at Denker’s name, as if she were a godless heathen and he a priest sent to exorcise her from the house. 

“God forsaken woman, if a member of the family had seen-!” Carson seethed under his breath. Thomas was right on his heels, eager to minimize any damage to Andy Parker should it come about. 

“Back doors locked and cleared-“ Thomas urged, but Carson only scoffed, “They won’t make out she’s been through, no one saw them come back-“ 

“Heard them though, that’s the real question!” Carson sneered upon the stairs. 

“Well we _are_ in Essex square.” Thomas griped irritably, begrudgingly noting that Carson had a point, “So we can always blame a window to the family and for what it’s worth they were already in a tiff over the new in laws so we needn’t worry about them hearing her either-“ 

They rounded a corner in the stairs.  
And ran smack into Andy Parker. 

Really the boy was rivaling Moseley in bad timing. 

“Ah! You’ve come back then?” Carson snarled. Andy paled, flattening himself against the wall. Thomas couldn’t blame him; he’d been on the receiving end of that bellow far too many times to count, “We thought you’d run away to sea!” 

“I-I’m very sorry M-Mr. Carson.” Andy stuttered, desperate to fish himself out of the hole before he drowned, “but Ms. Denker was taken ill-“ 

Carson snorted angrily at this, “Never mind taken ill I wish she’d been taken away- by the men in white coats!” 

Thomas could not help but agree after Denker’s lewd row of ‘Lavender’ comments. 

“Go down, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, “We’ll manage.” 

Carson huffed and puffed, bristling as he glared from Thomas to Andy, unsure of who to yell at first or what to yell at them for. In the end, Thomas dry stare won out and Carson stomped off down the stairs. Thomas watched him go, unmoved by his dramatic display. 

He looked to Andy, who was practically on the verge of tears, still flattened against the wall of the stairwell and miserable in his pale composure. 

“What happened.” Thomas grumbled. Andy burst out into a peel of explanation, unable to keep it in. 

“She took me, both nights, to this horrible basement club somewhere off Shaftesbury Avenue-“ 

Thomas knew the area well, it had a penchant for jazz, booze, and gambling. 

“And I suppose you gambled.” Thomas sighed. 

“Hell, I lost the lot!” Andy moaned in distress. Thomas pursed his lips, “I paid for it on a note, but it’ll take all my savings.” 

And suddenly Thomas could remember being Andy’s age, terrified in a ruined shack on the edge of town, the wreckage of spoiled goods all around him as he realized he was penniless and utterly fucked. 

Thomas wished that kind of fear on no man. 

“And I bet she didn’t lose a thing.” Thomas mused. Andy just whimpered, rolling his eyes to heaven as if expecting an answer to the madness to fall into his lap. Thomas was wiser; he knew heaven wouldn’t listen to Andy. But after Denker’s lewd comments, he had a few questions of his own: “One question.” Andy looked to him in nervous anticipation, “She’s not made a play for you? Done anything improper?” 

“No, no, no!” Andy was horrified at the mere suggestion, Thomas was glad to hear it after having had Denker crawl all over him in a drunken fancy, “God, no! Nothing like that. She just sat there and drank and they gave her whatever she wanted!” 

And suddenly Thomas had a feeling he knew what Denker was up to.  
She was claiming free drinks off of Andy, using him to have her way about the bar while he was left to flounder at the pool tables meant for men twice his age with much deeper pocket books. 

“I see.” Thomas muttered, “At least, I think I see.” He nodded to himself. By this point, Andy looked utterly petrified. Thomas’ grim expression seemed to be a death sentence in his eyes. Little did Andy know, Thomas’ determination was to his own benefit, “Next time I’m coming with you.” 

“Does there have to be a next time?!” Andy demanded, absolutely horrified at the notion. Thomas couldn’t blame him. He was essentially penniless at this point. 

“Yes.” Thomas said, and he could not keep the snide anger out of his voice. Andy’s eyes widened; he took a cautionary step back, “Just one more. And I’m fairly sure you’re going to enjoy it.” 

Andy just winced. Thomas stepped aside, jerking his head; Andy took the silent order with bitter care, running up the stairs to hassle to the drawing room. 

Thomas rushed up the rest of the steps, a plan already forming in his mind.  
Denker had made an enemy out of him by her vile words; he’d get her for daring to assume she knew the quality of his character. He’d get her, and watch her suffer all the while. And oh… would it feel _delightful._

~*~

It was not her office, nor her tea pot, but still Elsie Hughes tended to them both with loving care during her London stay. Mrs. Bute had been in charge, but now those days were past and soon this office would collect dust instead of inventory stamps. Another clang in the march of time, as Beryl Patmore would say. At present Beryl sat at Mrs. Bute’s unused tea table, shaken and white faced as she nursed a cup of cooling tea between trembling hands. Elsie could not blame her; the night had given them all a shake up. Denker’s dancing and rendition of Tipperary was nothing compared to Daisy Mason declaring her love for Thomas Barrow… and calling it requited. 

Which Elsie knew it was not. 

The last time Daisy had danced to this tune, William Mason had been alive and wretchedly in love, morose as he plucked a meagre tune upon the downstair’s piano and whistled away the hours. Elsie had felt dreadfully sorry for him then, thinking Thomas a right cad for leading Daisy on when she’d known from the very beginning that Thomas was not of that… persuasion. 

Now, William was dead, and Thomas had spent the last five years of his life utterly in love with Jimmy Kent. When had this song and dance begun again? And why? 

Phyllis Baxter stood between them both, chewing on her lip and looking unsure of where to start. 

“Before I begin, I need to preface this by saying that the reason I did not speak out before now was because of the trust Thomas placed in me.” Baxter paused, still very unsure of herself. Elsie waited with patient care, idly stirring her tea cup with a small silver spoon. “He wanted to be the one to tell Daisy the truth about… who he was. Or is, I should say.” Baxter muttered under her breath, “He didn’t want others to become involved- and yet he did?” She flustered, rotating her hands in mid air as if to jumpstart some invisible cog and wheel, “It’s very complicated?” 

“Complicated-“ Beryl bit out, her voice thick with shed tears, “That’s a word for it. Daisy is in love with Thomas? Oh what on earth will I do?” Beryl looked to Elsie in mournful silence. Elsie gave her an understanding smile. She knew that Beryl looked at Daisy like a sordid daughter. In a way Elsie did too. 

But she also looked at Thomas like a son.  
And she could not deny her greatest concern lay with him. 

“This situation will end in tears.” Elsie admitted, taking a small sip of tea to numb her aching throat. 

“Not all of them will be Daisy’s.” 

Elsie slowly set her teacup down, the chink absurdly loud in the tense silence that greeted Baxter’s words. Elsie looked to Baxter, waiting for her to carry on; Baxter merely kept her silence, an unwilling onlooker to what was clearly going to be a very sordid tale. 

“I think you’d better start explaining Ms. Baxter.” Elsie paused, “For the good of everyone involved.” 

Baxter seemed to be steeling herself, preparing for an oncoming nervous collapse as she twiddled her fingers and kept her eyes upon the floor. 

“Do you remember when Thomas’ father became ill and Thomas went to London to visit him?” Baxter began. 

“I do.” Elsie nodded, recalling well how impressed she’d been with Thomas to bury the hatchet and go to the aid of his ailing father on such short notice. 

“That was a lie.” 

Elsie closed her eyes, sighing pitifully; why was she not surprised? 

“Thomas’ family are very old friends of mine.” Baxter explained, “I know them well. Thomas’ father was never ill. I know this because he doesn’t live in London, he lives in Stockport with the rest of the Barrow family, and I would have known if he were ill because Thomas’ sister Margret would have told me… she and I are very close.” Baxter paused, “I didn’t press the issue because… Because…” 

She trailed off, her voice faint and unclear. 

“Thomas is private.” She stated, as if that alone would be worthy enough explanation.  
But privacy was no excuse for lies as far as Elsie was concerned. 

“I don’t understand.” Elsie could not help but glare a little at Baxter as she ran her thumb idly over the handle of her brittle tea cup, “Why would he tell such a lie-?” 

“I’m explaining, Mrs. Hughes.” Baxter assured her. Elsie fell silent and Baxter carried on, “I promise you it will make sense in just a moment. When Thomas returned, I saw how ill he looked and I knew something wasn’t right. Do you remember the magazine he dropped in the passage-?” 

“I think so-“ Elsie cut across, collecting the puzzle pieces with care. Thomas had looked gravely ill for certain, had appeared on the brink of collapse for weeks, “The London magazine?” 

“Yes.” Baxter nodded, “You gave it to me to give back to him… well… I was opened it to a spread and… I saw what he’d been reading. It was an advertisement… a ‘Choose Your Own Path.” 

“A what?” Beryl asked, echoing Elsie’s own internal sentiments. 

Baxter muttered to herself, casting her eyes about the room, to a pile of magazines that sat collecting dust in the corner. She took to it at once, rifling through the pile for an updated copy which she pulled free and flipped through at random. 

“Here-“ She paused, setting the magazine aside and picking up another one, “I’m sure there must be one.” She went for another, flipping through it gain, and this time found what she was looking for as she spread the magazine wide and curled left side under right to hand it over to Elsie who took it at once. 

“This.” Baxter pointed to the boastful add featuring a dapper man and a lady eager to dance, “This is what Thomas was doing in London.” 

Elsie peered over it, Beryl donning her reading glasses from her breast pocket to eagerly look on. 

“Choose your own path…” Elsie read the heading aloud, knowing full well Beryl’s eyes were far from sharp. The more Elsie read, the more disturbed she became, _“Suffering from thoughts of an unnatural nature? Find yourself longing for things beyond God’s plan? Eager to change your situation but unsure how? Look no farther than the offices of Warren and Warren who bring you the courageous option to change your nature and your life…For good.”_ Elsie drifted off, looking up at Baxter, unsure of what to say or where to begin, “I can’t be reading this right. What is this?” 

“It’s a hoax.” Baxter declared, though Elsie had already figured that out for herself with ease, the mere wording was enough to make her skin crawl. “For people like Thomas, who suffer every day of their lives, it’s an ugly and cruel hoax. These people, this Doctor Warren, promises cures for things that cannot be cured.” 

Elsie looked down at the add again, her eyes catching on phrases like _“innovative technology proves for breakthrough cure of unnatural urges”_ and _“Find love that lasts, with society’s blessing.”_

Love that lasts with society’s blessing? What on earth was that babble about? 

“Thomas went to London to change his sexuality.” Baxter said, and suddenly the room seemed to drop several degrees in temperature as Elsie slowly looked up to stare Baxter in the face. 

“To try and become like other people.” Baxter paused, miserable as she admitted the worst, “Like other men.” 

“Oh my god.” Beryl whispered, far from pleased at the prospect. 

Elsie reached up, tentatively touching the corner of her mouth as she continued to stare at Baxter; she was unseeing, however, her eyes instead glazed as they recalled an image from so long ago. Of Thomas hunched and sobbing like a beaten child in the rain, hiding from Jimmy Kent’s wrath in the courtyard. Thomas had been so proud before Charlie, so determined to be viewed as a normal man despite his different inclinations. When had that pride changed to utter shame? To sneaking away like a thief in the night to chase a carpet dream? 

“They electrocuted him-“  
Elsie bowed her head, hand still at the corner of her mouth. 

“They gave him things to take to continue the ‘therapy’ process at home.” Baxter said the word ‘therapy’ with clear derision. 

Elsie could not help but chide herself inwardly, just as she’d done when she’d found Ethel sleeping with that vile sergeant or when she’d allowed Edna back into the house when she’d _known_ what would undoubtably happen. 

She’d seen Thomas’ pale complexion, his nervous disposition. She’d watched him shrink, vanishing within himself while growing more vicious on the outside to keep others at arms length. At first, Elsie had thought it to do with the dismissal of Jimmy Kent (not that she could blame Thomas for his heartache)… but now that she knew the full truth she could see that there had been more. Thomas hadn’t just been acerbic, he’d been _afraid._ Utterly afraid, with no one that he felt he could turn to. 

_“That’s_ what got him so sick.” Baxter explained, “He was injecting unsterilized saline into his hip and it ended up giving him a hideous abscess.” 

“Electrocuted-“ Beryl repeated the word, still stuck on the nauseas concept. 

“Yes.” Baxter sniffed; Elsie glanced up to find her dewy eyed.  
She wondered how long Baxter had been dealing with this problem alone, had been wanting to confer with others for guidance but unable to do so without breaking Thomas’ trust. 

“It was the abscess that made him crack.” Baxter explained, which made perfect sense to Elsie. “He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat- he didn’t know what to do. It just kept getting worse and worse. So he finally broke down and took me aside-“ 

_“Have you seen Ms. Baxter?”_  
_“It’s not like you to seek out Ms. Baxter’s company-“_  
_“I’m serious Mrs. Hughes.”_

Elsie clumsily swallowed another mouthful of tea, suddenly feeling incredibly nauseas.  
He’d been on death’s door and she’d been none the wiser. 

“He didn’t want to show me-“ Baxter snorted at the memory as if it were humorous in its own right, “But I made him; it was horrific.” She shuddered, closing her eyes momentarily before continuing on, “I took him straight to Dr. Clarkson and he took care of the abscess. He tried to tell Thomas that it was in vain, that the whole process had been a sham. That he couldn’t change. That there was no point. That no shock, no drug, could make him different. But I don’t think Thomas listened because he’s still taking the pills and now he’s… with Daisy.” Baxter trailed off, in disbelief of the absurdity of her own words. 

Beryl, for once, had nothing to say. It seemed she was too staggered to manage even a small conviction. Elsie rubbed her eyes, feeling them sting and burn with an aching tiredness. No matter how she rubbed her eyes burned and burned till her fingers were wet and the skin beneath her eyes was damp. 

She wished the entire night could be taken back, the entire month reversed. Anything to have spared Thomas this insanity. 

“I think Thomas is so desperate to be loved, so desperate to be liked and normal… to be enjoyed around the house… to be like Mr. Bates or Mr. Moseley… he just can’t take the loneliness anymore. He can’t take the pain anymore.” Baxter paused, an ugly swelling silence filling the gaps between her words, “I think Jimmy leaving nearly killed him. He loved him too much.” 

Beryl took off her glasses, her expression one of misery and discontent. 

“…Daisy…” Was all Beryl could say, her voice thick with emotion. It was more than enough. 

“I don’t think he’s leading her on.” Baxter said, crossing her arms over her chest as she pursed her lips and contemplated the entire affair, “I think he genuinely is trying to love her, and she’s obviously infatuated with him. She has no idea about anything- Thomas wants to be the one to tell her… but this is going to end in disaster and I can’t convince him otherwise.” Baxter shook her head with a sigh. 

No, Elsie knew full well that Thomas Barrow was incredibly stubborn to the point of recklessness. If he didn’t want to do something, he wasn’t going to do it; it was a simple as that. 

“He just wants to be normal, to be loved so badly. He’s going to kill himself before he admits defeat.” Baxter said. Elsie nodded in silent agreement. 

“I don’t know what to do Mrs. Hughes.” 

Elsie glanced up at Baxter, smiling bitterly at Baxter while she stroked the handle of her ancient teacup. Beryl gave a hearty sniff; Elsie reached across the table to pat her hand in common sympathy. Yes, there in a mess fair enough. A right and ugly mess. 

But every mess could be fixed. 

“I can’t reach him.” Baxter looked well and truly defeated, “I think the only one who would be able to would be Jimmy, and Jimmy’s gone.” Baxter pursed her lips for a moment, glancing at both Beryl and Elsie with knowing eyes, “You know, I think that’s the real reason for all of this. I think Thomas truly loved Jimmy and he’s gone. And Thomas can’t cope with the pain.” Baxter gave a listless shrug, utterly lost for a way forward. 

Elsie gave an enormous sigh, reaching out and slowly closing the offending magazine’s glossy cover to scoot it aside so that the sitting room table was clear. She took her time, reaching out for Mrs. Bute’s chipped teapot to refill her cup and Beryl’s, offering a third to Baxter who shook her head in silent dismissal. 

“Is there anything else you know, Ms. Baxter?” Elsie asked, her tone hopefully making it quite clear that there could be no room for lies in such a tricky situation, “Anything else you feel you ought to tell us while we’re both here listening?” 

Baxter went green, looking quite nauseas as she steeled herself for one final admission. Elsie couldn’t imagine what else was lurking, her anxiety momentarily getting the better of her as she paused mid sip of tea and waited with baited breath. 

“I’ve caught them kissing.” Baxter admitted. 

“Oh Lord.” Beryl moaned, propping her elbows upon the table to bury her head in her hands as Elsie sat her teacup back down utterly devoid of interest in regards to drinking. 

This had gotten far too serious far too fast. The image of Thomas kissing Daisy- of Thomas kissing any woman- was utterly absurd and one she would not indulge her inner mind with. She would be handling this situation and promptly. Thomas Barrow would be getting an earful and a firm talking to, no excuses or exceptions permitted. 

“I- I need to talk to Daisy.” where Elsie’s plan was internal, Beryl’s was external; a stream of conscious thought as she considered everything in its place, “I need to sit her down and explain everything to her-“ 

“Thomas wanted to be the to tell her-“ Baxter piped up; Beryl shot her a look that could have blown a hole in a German tank. 

“If this were about what Thomas wanted, Jimmy Kent would still be workin’ here ‘an without a shirt on too I reckon!” Beryl barked, her accent slipping in her anger. 

Elsie couldn’t deny the idea held the smallest amount of appeal with her as well, though she wouldn’t be telling that to Beryl. Or anyone else for that matter. 

“But Thomas-“ Baxter tried again. Elsie cut her off with a firm shake of the head, raising a hand in silent dismissal. 

“I’ll talk to Thomas.” Elsie declared. Baxter looked mildly sated; no doubt this had been her hope all along.

“The sooner the better.” Baxter agreed. 

“Oh Daisy…” Beryl was moaning into her hands, her anger dissolved into a murky somber silence, “My poor Daisy.” 

Beryl wiped her eyes, clear evidence of her tears though she desperately tried to hide them and keep a straight face. 

“This is just too much,” Beryl’s voice momentarily choked; Elsie reached out a hand again to rub Beryl’s elbow in calm support. “Why would he do this, Mrs. Hughes? Why would he lead a poor girl on?” 

“But he _isn’t_ leading her on, Mrs. Patmore!” Baxter protested before Elsie could get a word in edge wise “He believes he loves her; he’s not malicious he’s just confused. He’s forgotten who he is… and Daisy.” Baxter paused, unsure of what to say, “Daisy just doesn’t know the situation. No one in this situation is to blame. Certainly not Thomas.” 

Beryl said nothing for a moment, gathering herself as she wiped her eyes. Elsie fetched a handkerchief from her dress pocket and passed it over; Beryl accepted it silently, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. For a moment Beryl simply sat and thought it over, sniffling once or twice as she looked from the closed magazine, to Elsie, to Baxter. 

“No…” Beryl whispered in final agreement, hesitantly passing Elsie back her handkerchief. Elsie accepted it without complaint, pocketing it. “No. You’re right.” 

Her voice was hollow, weary, and weak. A far cry from her usual bellow of command. 

Beryl rose up, pushing her teacup away so that it rattle momentarily upon its saucer as she heaved an aching sigh and made her way for the door. She paused at the threshold, something clearly catching her attention as she turned and regarded both Elsie and Baxter once more. The two women waited in silence. 

“…My nephew Archie…” Beryl’s voice thickened with emotion at the mere name, the memory enough to get her going what with the fresh wound of the war memorial doomed to not include his name for cowardice, “I remember how scared he used to look; like the world were on fire and he were burning alive in it. Like no where were safe.” 

She looked down at shook her head. 

“I don’t want that for Thomas.” Beryl admitted. “I don’t want that for anybody.”  
The silent implication of her words went unquestioned. 

She left without another word, the door closing quietly behind her. 

Baxter let out a breath, so exhausted that her entire composure seemed to slump like a marionette with its strings cut. Unable to remain standing, Baxter took a seat in Beryl’s abandoned chair, momentarily resting her head in her hand as Elsie drummed her withered fingers upon the glossy cover of the magazine and poured Baxter a cup of tea. Without acknowledgement, Elsie pushed it forward. Baxter did not make to drink, too wrapped up in ennui to notice it. 

“Thomas is not a bad person, Mrs. Hughes.” Baxter said after several moments of silence. 

Elsie smiled in spite of herself. 

There had been times when she’d wondered, times when she’d been glad to see Thomas gone. Thomas’ brutal bullying of William had been unbearable to watch; his acerbic treatment of the staff during the war had rubbed Elsie’s nerves raw. The dramatic shift in character, the strange subdued bitterness that had taken over Thomas upon his return to staff had not gone unnoticed. When Thomas had started on Alfred, Elsie had been almost certain that Thomas was a cad- a dark horse than needed a thorough whipping to curb his nasty behavior. 

But then Jimmy had come along, and everything had changed. 

For someone who could be so cruel, so conniving and sharp, Thomas could also be utterly loving and devoted. Willing to endure anything and everything to keep the affection and trust of those he cared for. Jimmy had been a vain and silly flirt, but he’d also been a double image of Thomas. A proud and determined youth, eager to leave service and make his own path without a clue as to how or when. The pair of them had gotten on like a house on fire, and frankly before “the incident” Elsie had been almost certain that something…romantic… was occurring between them. Thomas wouldn’t hear a word against Jimmy, wore his heart on his sleeve as Jimmy got closer and closer to him to the point where they were openly flirting across the breakfast table and snickering with each other by the piano in full view of the other servants. 

But then “the incident” had occurred, and Elsie had been given a harsh wakeup call. 

Nothing had prepared her for seeing Thomas hunched and beaten in the rain, hiding from the staff in utter terror of their judgement and scorn as he wept openly into his hands. She’d never seen a man so defeated, so broken; it had completely defied her image and expectation of Thomas. 

The entire night had shifted her reality of someone she’d thought she’d known. Had brought to light a side of Thomas she hadn’t even imagined in existence. 

When he’d sat at her tea table, and told her the whole sorry tale, Elsie had not felt a single shred of shock or disgust (despite what he’d initially feared and protested). Instead she’d felt nothing but deepest pity, calmest understanding. She hadn’t approved of Thomas kissing Jimmy in his sleep simply because the entire idea of kissing _anyone_ in their sleep was akin to a bag full of wooden nickels; honestly the child had needed a slap upside the head and not for the reasons he’d outwardly feared. 

Thomas had trembled like a teacup upon an unsteady saucer, his teeth clattering as he’d shivered violently and wept into his hands unable to look Elsie in the eye: _“I love him and he hates me”_ Thomas had sobbed. _“God help me, I love him. I can’t live without him. I’m going to die without him, I am.”_

And Elsie had believed him. 

Those days had been incredibly telling of Thomas’ true character; pride gone and wounds on obvious display, Thomas had become a figure of silent protest. He’d been far from vain in his admission of his love for Jimmy; he was humbly honest in what it meant. In lieu of society’s scorn, Thomas had offered no solutions. The simple statement of “I am what I am and I’m not ashamed” had never struck so deeply with Mrs. Hughes. 

Charlie had never admitted it to Thomas, had never admitted it to anyone really… but those days had changed his view on Thomas as well. Only Beryl had been unsurprised, allowing Thomas to hide in her pantry as often as he needed to escape Jimmy and Alfred’s cruelties. More than once Elsie had sat in the boot room with Thomas mid-inventory scan, simply eager to be within ear shot should either footman attempt another barb. Charlie had offered no help on the subject, had not wanted to be come entangled in it, but at the same time he’d kept an incredibly firm rule downstairs that was upheld in even the farthest corners of the basement: _“We do not discuss ‘the incident’. Not now, not ever. We do not take pleasure in other’s pain.”_

And so three had become four as Thomas Barrow assumed the role of under-butler, a strange blanket of protection falling over him as both Elsie, Charlie, and Beryl kept the others at bay. The one exception had been John Bates, though he’d had very little comment on the subject and certainly no scorn. 

_“It’s not like it was a secret.”_ John had shrugged, utterly unfazed as he’d flipped through the Sunday paper left out by Charlie.  
No… not a secret at all. 

“He’s actually quite kind.” Baxter murmured, bringing Elsie back to the present moment. 

Elsie smiled, still thumbing the edge of her teacup. She managed to catch Baxter’s eye, and silently toasted her as she took a sip of tea. 

“Believe it or not, Ms. Baxter, you don’t have to convince me.” Elsie said.  
Baxter gave a weak smile.


	9. Sunshine Eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good job says I! We worked hard tonight!” 
> 
> It came like a new shade of purple, coating the night air and stilling the sound of the street around them. It rolled like thunder overhead, a few black clouds now submerged under cover of darkness still threatening to drop rain. Thomas could taste the electricity, the anticipation upon the air, and suddenly his heart began to pound, his mouth drying up for the second time that night as. With incredibly clarity, the kind of heavenly intervention so spoken about by the poets and artists of the world over, he came walking down the garden path with a company of five behind him. Three men, two girls, one of them Jack Ross. 
> 
> Jimmy Kent.

It was dangerous to plot in public, or so Thomas had learned. In the tight packed quarters of the servant’s halls, people were prone to see you scowling and would eventually wonder why. Mercifully after years of scowling, people didn’t think it much out of character for him anymore… and after last night no one was smiling at Denker anyways. 

In fact most of them were scowling. 

“Listen everyone, as soon as they finish lunch they’ll get ready for the blessing at half past two” Mr. Carson kept order at the head of the table, his eyes drifting from face to face as he counted each member of their company. “Those of you going to the Savoy Chapel, there’ll be a coach to bring you back for the reception this afternoon.” 

Thomas would most definitely not be going to the Savoy Chapel.

Thomas sat between Anna and Mrs. Hughes, Bates across from him and keeping good company while Denker scowled on his right and massaged her temple. Phyllis bounced between merriment and scowling, enjoying conversation with Moseley only to cast Denker a withering glare every so often as Thomas sipped his fourth cup of coffee and wondered when the caffeine would kick in. 

He had a firm philosophy in life: if he wasn’t physically shaking, he needed more coffee. 

“What about dinner, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked between sips, eyes narrowing as he considered the prospect of destroying Denker at whatever card hovel she’d drug Andy to last time. 

“Just for the family.” Carson assured him, “Her Ladyship wants a buffet of what’s left over.” 

Then it was settled. Thomas was going to destroy Denker tonight as soon as the family were put to rights. 

“I might add some hot soup.” Patmore threw in, giving Thomas the oddest look. 

She was in an bizarre state today. Sometimes she’d carry on with her normal bravado and bark orders at the maids. Other times she’d sit and stare off into space looking truly concerned for the state of the world. Thomas supposed it was only natural; the strain of the wedding feast must have made her brain crack. He just wished she’d stop looking at him like he held all the answers. He might be an expert at clocks but even he lacked the power to make time go faster. 

Everyone was standing up now, each servant to their respective post about Grantham House as the upstairs lot had their fun and put on their pretty clothes. This song and dance was getting old; Thomas wanted a pub sandwich and a pint of beer by himself in the corner of a dark and smokey bar where no one could disturb him and no one knew his name. 

He could practically taste the ale in his mouth now; it was salivating. 

“I should go. “Anna sighed, tucking in her chair and rising up, “I’m helping Lady Rose to change.” 

He’d order a pint for Anna in the spirit of good camaraderie. There was nothing quite so exhausting as dressing a bride twice, and Anna still had to contend with Lady Mary afterward. 

“I don’t think it’s right to put on a wedding dress when it’s only a blessing.” Denker complained; no one paid her any mind.

“She won’t wear a veil.” Anna amused Denker, an upbeat edge to her voice. Phyllis was having none of it, far from humored as she scowled across the table. 

“You’re right, though. We should get on.” Phyllis said shortly, successfully cutting off whatever blasé comment Denker had been about to let loose. Clearly Phyllis hadn’t forgiven Denker for her string of ‘lavender’ comments; Thomas was quite touched. 

In the flurry of movement that followed the upper staffs departure, Thomas seized his chance; he rose from the table despite the throbbing pain it caused his sutures, scooting around the table to cut Denker off even as she rounded on Andy who was hiding by the linen pantry door and looking very nervous indeed. 

_Fear not,_ Thomas though with vicious glee, _here I come to save the day._

“So.” Thomas approached Denker, catching her quite off guard as she continued to massage her temples. “We should be able to get away later on. If you’re up for it after her ladyship’s gone to bed.” 

He desperately tried to keep him mind off the memory of Denker’s vulture claws grabbing at his hips. He hadn’t felt so manhandled since a bad night underground when a drunken sailor had decided that Thomas’ _‘no’_ had meant ‘ _yes’_ , and his _‘get your filthy hands off me’_ had meant _‘don’t stop touching me my darling’._

He’d learned in the end though; they all did eventually. 

“What you mean you want to come?” Denker was shocked, if not slightly delighted at the prospect. Thomas knew why; Denker was no doubt growing faint over the idea of Thomas being the one to pay for her drinks instead of Andy. 

“Well you’ve been having lots of fun, Ms. Denker.” Thomas put on his smoothest voice, a trained mask after years of wearing the servant’s blank. “Unless you feel the worse for wear?” 

He couldn’t resist the jab. It was just too easy to make.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Denker’s tone was just the slightest touchy as she sniffed, “I had a headache that’s all.” 

At this she turned to Andy who took an instinctive step backwards as if he feared that Denker was going to further assault him with a chorus of Tipperary: “Well if he’s coming you needn’t bother.” 

Andy nodded, grateful for his way out, and began to inch away. Thomas stopped him. 

_No, no, little deer,_ Thomas thought, _stay and watch the hunter get shot in the face._

“No, we want Andy with us.” Thomas disagreed. Andy did a double take, horrified at Thomas’ words. Clear hurt crossed Andy’s features as if he meant to say _“I thought you were my friend!”_

_Oh I am._ Thomas thought, _You just don’t know it yet._

Denker didn’t look bothered either way, but a voice behind Thomas gave him momentary pause:

“With you for what?” Mrs. Hughes stood at the ready, her hair impeccably combed and her smile as pleasant as always… but there was the slightest hint of worry at the edge of her voice. The tiniest tint of sadness that Thomas noticed from force of habit. After watching her expressions for nearly fifteen years, he knew her too well. 

“Nothing, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas assured her. She gave him a tired smile. 

“You should know, Andy,” Mrs. Hughes warned with good humor, “You take your life in your hands if you throw in your lot with these two.” 

And with that she moved off. 

Thomas watched her go, noting that as she took to the linen pantry she cast a glance over her shoulder to catch Thomas’ eye a second time. For a moment she simply looked him over, up and down, as if to check him over for scrapes and bruises. Whatever she was searching for, he came up empty, and frowned bitterly as she closed the door to the linen pantry after her retreating back. 

And so the day carried on. 

The morning and mid afternoon were fast-paced affairs, the cogs of servants working together like a well oiled clock to see Lady Rose off to the registry office for her wedding proper only to receive her back after twelve to have her re-dress in her actual wedding gown for the Savoy Chapel. With the bridal party and the Crawley family went the Bates, Phyllis, Moseley, Carson, and Hughes effectively leaving Thomas in charge of a massive cluster of exhausted hall boys and fretful maids. Under his instruction they cleared the sitting parlor and living room, preparing it for the wedding party when they should arrive back at half past five. With an hour and a half to go and nothing to be done, Thomas effectively demanded that everyone rest while he kept company with Daisy in the kitchen. A few of the hall boys looked ready to cry they were so eager for sleep. 

As far as Thomas as concerned, what Carson didn’t know couldn’t hurt him and an exhausted worker was an ineffective worker. 

Thomas woke the hall boys and the maids up at five, giving them half an hour to piece themselves back together to pretend they hadn’t taken a nap in the middle of the day. By the time Carson walked back through the door, they were working at double speed and garnering compliments on all sides. 

Amazing what a bit of consideration for the little people could do. 

by the time that the reception was finished and dinner was a cold affair, the family were worn thin to tissue and ready for bed. They might have fallen in with their clothes on had respective valets and maids not put them to rights first. After that it was a ‘to each his own’ affair, with most eager to simply sit down and have a cup of tea. 

Thomas, however, was far from tired; out of livery he felt like a new man… a few quid in his pocket later he was ready to run Denker into the dirt. 

He made his way down and out of the servant’s hall, skirting questions from the Bates and a call for conversation from Phyllis. 

_Not tonight, not tonight,_ he thought bitterly. _Not till I’ve had my revenge._

“Mr. Barrow-“ 

_Not tonight._ Thomas kept thinking; the voice followed after him: “Mr. Barrow-!” 

Thomas rounded the corner to the outer hall, almost to the exit- 

 

“Thomas-!“ Mrs. Hughes’ voice caught his attention, but just barely. So intent was he on destroying Denker that he almost overlooked Hughes standing in the hallway with a pained expression upon her usually benevolent face. She looked quite concerned, her mouth flickering to a frown, and it caused Thomas a momentary pause of worry. Though he would never admit it out loud, he had a soft spot for Mrs. Hughes, had always had one ever since she’d found him in the rain and brought him for a spot by her fire and a pot of tea… anything that bothered her had a tendency to bother him. 

“Thomas,” Her use of his christian name did nothing to ease his nerves. She took a tentative step forward, trying for an air of calm despite her jittery tone, “I was wondering if I might have a word with you-“ 

“You can.” Thomas assured her, “Just not right now.” He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, making sure that Denker was still out of ear shot; she was waiting with Andy by the back door, quite taken up with the dull activity of picking a spot off her moth eaten coat. “I’ve got to rescue Andy from that ridiculous Denker woman.” 

“I won’t pretend I’m sad to hear it.” Mrs. Hughes snorted under her breath, “But how do you plan on doing it?” 

Thomas could not hide his malicious grin; Hughes did a double take, paling slightly at the sinister nature of his stance. 

“She’s a boozer who likes card sharps.” Thomas murmured softly, “That’s a bad combination for her and she’s about to find out why. Excuse me.” And with that he tipped his flat cap to her before making his way to the back door. 

He had no way of knowing it, with his back to Hughes as he exited the outer servant’s halls into the cool brisk air of the London night, but Hughes watched him go with a pained expression.

~*~

It worked. Gloriously. 

In a way it had been bizarrely easy; Thomas was familiar with Shaftesbury Avenue, and though Denker had not know it, _The Velvet Violin._ The good thing about heavy boozers was that they got drunk without your invitation so that Thomas merely had to hang back by the Pontoon table till Denker was thoroughly sauced. By Thomas’ orders, Andy kept his distance from the betting tables while Thomas watched his hand with care and kept his eye on the designated banker. The green ears would think to watch for faces, but not Thomas… he kept his eyes on the cuffs of their sleeves and found none of them cheating. 

When it was the banker’s turn they laid their cards flat. 

One man laid a nine, six, and ace, marking his points up to sixteen. Another man laid down a nine and ace giving him the mark of twenty. A third laid down a nine, eight, and four giving him the advantage of twenty one. The designated banker laid down a Five Card Trick with a seven, three, four and two twos. 

Thomas grinned as he laid down his ace and jack, a clear pontoon. The others groaned and handed over their chips, soundly thrashed. 

When Thomas handed his chips over to Andy, the boy practically danced out the door. One word to Basil Shute later the pair of them were free to fly like seabirds on a strong breeze and Denker was sunk like a stone. Saying ‘Bye’ with a merry air to Denker over the sea of heads had been likewise dance-worthy. The pair of them had made good time skipping out of the bar with cash in hand and grins on their faces. 

The only downside of the night was that Thomas had stupidly offered for Andy to call him “Uncle Thomas” the next time he had questions that needed answering. It made an ugly shard of bitterness edge itself even deeper into his heart; too drunk to acknowledge it properly and too happy to care, Thomas instead focused on getting Andy back home before Carson was any the wiser. As for Denker, Thomas couldn’t have cared less. She could sink into the Thames, as far as he was concerned. 

“You were brilliant!” Andy cried out with glee as they stepped over the threshold of the servant’s area and back into the outer hall. Andy counted his money for what was surely the tenth time, now safe from muggers who might come for them on the street, “Absolutely brilliant!” 

Thomas grinned, quite chuffed at how marvelously his plan had been executed. 

“How was Mr. Barrow brilliant, Andy?” 

Down at the end of the hall, half drunk cup of tea in hand and looking quite relieved to find them back before ten was Mrs. Hughes; she tried for an easy air but still looked worse for wear as she handed her teacup to a passing kitchen maid. Andy winced, no doubt thinking himself caught out a second time that week as he fumbled for an excuse and looked to Thomas for support. 

“Bad combination as I said before-“ Thomas removed his flat clap, running a hand through his slicked hair with a sigh; the Brilliantine was losing its hold by now. “Now the drinker is paying for the drinks, and the children are not-“ 

“I’m not a child.” Andy grumbled; Thomas snorted in spite of himself even as Mrs. Hughes gave him an affectionate if watery smile. “and I have to pay you back!” and at this he made to give Thomas a large chunk of the winnings. Thomas would not accept it, shoving his hands far into his pockets so that Andy’s fist full of cash had no where to go. 

“No.” 

“You said we’d argue about this later, well it’s later!” Andy’s cheeks were turning hot. 

_You’re the honorable type,_ Thomas thought with a smile. _William would have liked you._

“Come on, stop being stubborn!” Andy snapped as Thomas refused to accept the cash; Thomas sneered, turning his face away to look at the wall instead of Andy, “I can’t just use your winnings.” 

“I don’t want them.” Thomas said airily. 

“I still can’t take them-“ 

Hughes was watching the back and forth banter with mild amusement, perhaps wondering who was going to win out. 

“Look I have no use for those winnings, and your savings were wiped out by that woman!” Thomas continued on down the hall, eager for a cigarette and bed. Andy followed after him angrily, “Do you want to be a footman?” 

“Yes-!” Andy said indignantly. 

“Then learn to take advantage of opportunities when they are presented.” Thomas snapped, a thumb under his collar as he jerked at his collar and tie. God he was exhausted. “When I was your age, I didn’t have anyone to save my skin- either I saved it myself or I floundered.” 

“But it just feels wrong-!” Andy whined. Thomas rolled his eyes, passing Hughes in the hallway. She turned and followed, quick on her feet to keep up with Thomas. 

“That’s very kind of you to give Andy your winnings, Mr. Barrow-“ Hughes leaned in, “But can I take the moment to speak with you now?” 

Thomas cast a glance at her; she looked truly fretful. 

“Yes, of course.” Thomas assured her at once, growing the slightest bit paranoid. He stopped in his tracks, jerking his thumb to Andy, “You better get off to bed, tomorrow’s going to be just as rough-“ 

“I still want to pay you back-“ Andy pleaded. 

“Oh my god, Andy!” Thomas snarled; Andy jumped, his eyebrows flying up at Thomas’ popping temper, “Be off with you. You’re a dog on a bone!” 

Andy scowled, “What’s got you in such a mood?” 

“I have three cigarettes left. They won’t last me the weekend.” Thomas grumbled. 

“Heaven help us.” Mrs. Hughes said dryly. Thomas quirked an eyebrow at her.

“G’night Mr. Barrow.” Andy said, tipping his hat to Thomas, “Mrs. Hughes.” 

“Goodnight, Andy.” Thomas called after him. With luck Andy would forget all about that ‘Uncle Thomas’ comment. 

Now left to their own devices, Thomas and Mrs. Hughes made their way down the hall. 

They entered Hughes office, only to have her close the door behind them as soon as they crossed the threshold so that no one could enter and demand an audience. She still carried that jittery air, effectively puncturing Thomas’ brief high so that he found himself floating back to earth warily as Hughes poured them both a cup of tea from a chipped pot sitting on a stained doily. She slid Thomas’ cup across Mrs. Bute’s barely used tea table. Thomas took it, far from thirsty but not wanting to appear rude as Mrs. Hughes sat down in Mrs. Bute’s chair and gestured for him to do the same. 

Thomas took a seat, still refraining from sipping his tea. 

“Andy seems like a very nice lad.” Hughes remarked. 

“He’s wet around the ears, make no mistake.” Thomas rubbed his brow; he could feel a slight tension headache forming between his eyes. He was eager for bed, but knew sleep was far from coming so long as something was bothering Mrs. Hughes. “What can I help you with?” 

In a wholly uncharacteristic move, Hughes struggled for words; she opened and closed her mouth several times, pursing her lips as she realized that she could not speak what was on her mind. 

Thomas’ heart thudded in his chest. 

“Is something wrong?” Thomas asked. “Has something happened?” 

“Yes.” Mrs. Hughes finally replied, her voice quite tight. She coughed several times, attempting to clear her throat as she took a nervous sip of tea. Her cup rattled on its saucer as she set it back down. He realized the very tips of her fingers were trembling; Thomas’ heart continued to pound in his chest. “I’m afraid something has.” 

“Thomas..” Mrs. Hughes’ use of his christian name once again made him incredibly wary. “I was approached last night by someone who informed me of several problems that need addressing. And quickly.” She tilted her head as if this should make everything obvious. Thomas just continued to stare, wondering what hall boy or maid he’d have to box about the ears now. At least with the wedding behind them they wouldn’t have to worry over a nuptial disaster. 

“What are these problems?” Thomas asked. Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips. 

“There are three.” Mrs. Hughes said; Thomas waited with baited breath, “The first is that you’ve endured quite a trauma in silence, the second is what you were attempting to gain from the results of this trauma, and the third is… Daisy.” 

Thomas looked away, unable to meet Mrs. Hughes’ gaze any longer. Without fully acknowledging what he’d done, Thomas rose from his chair to leave his tea cup behind. Without beckoning or desire for remembrance, Phyllis’ words from night’s previous were echoing in his ears, a threat made good: _“Thomas, if you do not stop, if you do not stop this madness this very night, I will tell Daisy, Hughes, Patmore… everyone. Everything. I will tell them the whole bitter truth and we’ll see how you like it.”_

It was clear now she’d not been bluffing, and Thomas suddenly felt incredibly sick. He brought a hand up to his mouth, a strange sound slipping out that sounding somewhere between a strangulation and a short sharp curse. 

He reached for the door, eager to leave Mrs. Hughes and this accursed sitting room behind if only to have a moment to reagin his composure. He’d just touched the handle when Mrs. Hughes’ voice cut across the gap, effectively rooting him to the spot. 

“Please do not leave until I’ve had my say.” 

Thomas’ hand slipped from the handle; he turned and began to pace instead. But where could he find refuge in such a cramped room? He desperately wanted space between himself and Mrs. Hughes, forcing him into the farthest corner where a cupboard full of the finest china (freshly replaced from the wedding) was sitting behind sheets of delicately carved glass. 

Thomas turned to face it, his back to Mrs. Hughes as he ran a hand over the intricate lines that marked the petals and stems of flowers born into the panes. His heart hammered in his chest, making his throat feel horribly dry so that he suddenly wished he’d taken a sip of his tea before hearing what Mrs. Hughes had to say. One thing was for certain, he was not going back over to that sitting table. 

Nor was he turning around. 

“You can have a cigarette if it’ll calm your nerves.” Mrs. Hughes offered, though it was a pitiful bridge to attempt a gap over the distance between them now. A smoke would solve _nothing_ \- his throat was already dry enough. 

“It will not.” Thomas growled, unable to keep the tense edge out of his voice even for Mrs. Hughes’ sake. 

“Well have one anyways, you look ready to tear your hair out.” 

She had a point. Thomas reached into his pocket to retrieve a packet of Woodbines, still turned away from Mrs. Hughes so that at best she could only see his profile. It was difficult work, retrieving a cigarette, simply because his hands were shaking so badly that he could not grab one. He eventually gave up on the idea altogether and simply held the packet of cigarettes limply at his side. 

Thomas turned his face into the wall at the sound of wood scraping against stone as Mrs. Hughes rose up from her chair. The smell of perfume grew stronger, and Thomas knew that she was close as the warmth of another human body near his own invaded his senses; he felt weak at the knees. She reached down and took the cigarette pack from his slackening grip; the warmth of her touch shocked him so badly that he instinctively jerked his hand back and cracked his elbow against the wall. He yipped, a sharp stinging pain numbing his arm as he hissed and rubbed his elbow vigorously through his jacket. 

Mrs. Hughes made a soft tutting noise of disapproval, opening his pack and handing him a cigarette. He took it clumsily, perching it between his teeth to search for his lighter in his pocket. He found it with numb fingers, groping aimlessly with it as he tried to open it for a light. Mrs. Hughes watched him for a moment before taking the lighter from him as well, opening it carefully to strike up a light. Thomas cupped his shaking hands, lighting his cigarette to draw in a shaky breath, and Mrs. Hughes closed his lighter to hand both it and the packet back to Thomas. He re-pocketed them without comment, choosing to focus on the simple act of smoking instead of acknowledging Mrs. Hughes. He thought the cloud of smoke would put her off, but she neither moved nor made a fuss. Instead she looked to the cuff of his jacket where a loose thread was hanging. She plucked it free, just as Daisy had done a few days prior outside the Wallace Collection. 

“My father used to smoke all the time.” Mrs. Hughes said in a way of passing. Thomas did not comment on it. “Did your father smoke too?” 

“I don’t know.” Thomas whispered, when he in fact knew very well that his father did smoke (and the same brand as Thomas). For some reason, it soothed him to say ‘I don’t know’, to back out of questions with a vague answer that left him accountable for nothing. He could hide in an ‘I don’t know’. He could stay there as long as he liked till he felt safe again. Mrs. Hughes seemed to sense this and merely nodded as he continued to smoke. Too soon, however, his cigarette was through; with one last shaky breath of smoke Thomas pinched the tiny end still left and stubbed it out in his own hand. Hughes looked mildly impressed if not slightly concerned; Thomas pocketed the butt. He’d throw it away later. 

But suddenly they were back to square one, and though nicotine now flooded his system Thomas still felt utterly petrified. 

“Now then.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, reaching out to rub his arm soothingly through his faded jacket. “Will you tell me everything?” 

“… Does it matter?” Thomas asked, his voice quite choked and dry. 

“Yes.” Mrs. Hughes replied. “It does.” 

A beat of silence passed between them, but Mrs. Hughes did not make to fill it with idle chatter. Instead she simply waited with Thomas in that dingy corner, crowded by china cabinets and filtered through quickly fading cigarette smoke. 

“… What do you want to know?” Thomas asked, hoarse as he reached into his pocket for his lighter; he did not make for another cigarette. He simply wanted something to hold. As if he could lift his hand up right now, get it blown to kingdom come, and escape this god awful conversation with Mrs. Hughes. 

“… Well, we’ll start with this.” Mrs. Hughes reached around, taking a London magazine from atop a linen cupboard and flipping it to a centerfold featuring-

“Oh jesus help me-“ Thomas blurted out, unable to stop himself as he clapped a hand over his mouth and quickly turned away. Mrs. Hughes dropped the magazine at once, quickly hiding the “Choose Your Own Path” add though the damage was done.

The shame within him was growing, burning him up from the inside out till there was nothing left but an absolute sense of horror and misery that would not let him be. Trapped in that corner with Mrs. Hughes, he felt on the verge of hysterical tears simply for the hopelessness of his situation. He couldn’t stand the constant back and forth- feeling so strong with Daisy only to feel absolutely terrified in the company of others. Here before Mrs. Hughes he felt like a disobedient child that had been caught in the act, like he’d been caught stealing wine again- his cheeks flushed hot as he turned his face into the wall. 

Mrs. Hughe’s hand was back on his arm. 

“Thomas-“ Mrs. Hughes said his name with such care as if the slightest amount of force would make it shatter, “You must know that none of us blame you-“ 

“Us?!” Thomas cried out, “Us?!” He jerked his arm out of Mrs. Hughes’ grip despite how she protested in keeping it there, “Who else knows about this?” 

“Mrs. Patmore-“ Mrs. Hughes said; Thomas leaned heavily against the wall to muffle a groan against the stone. “Now don’t be like that- you’re not in trouble-“ 

But a sudden knocking at the door of Mrs. Hughes sitting room gave cause for Mrs. Hughes to grow silent, suddenly looking to her door in slightest fear- 

_“Mrs. Hughes, it’s me.”_ came Phyllis’ muffled voice. _“Can I come in-?”_

“Oh.” Mrs. Hughes let out a breath. Thomas, on the other hand, jerked back from the wall with a sudden rage. _Phyllis Baxter_ \- how could she betray him in this way? “Come in Ms. Baxter-“ 

Phyllis let herself in with a look of slightest trepidation. It was more than deserved with Thomas seething behind Mrs. Hughes and Hughes herself still very wary. With smoke in the air and a gleam in his eye, Thomas likened himself in that moment to a bad tempered dragon; he was ready to breath fire down on Phyllis Baxter. 

“I saw you enter together, I thought I’d-“ 

“Return to the scene of the crime-?!” Thomas rode over her with such force that Phyllis quickly stuck a hand out to make sure the door was adequately closed in case anyone came running. “How could you? How could you do this to me, you…you…” Thomas searched for a word, coming up with nothing, his vocabulary coming out pathetically low as Phyllis steeled herself for whatever insult he was about to throw. 

He could come up with nothing, his throat had effectively closed up. He was so mad he could no longer speak. Instead he just made a series of gasping and wheezing sounds, turning away from both women as he began to forcibly breath in and out. 

_He could not kill Phyllis. Phyllis was his friend, and Joseph Moseley’s dame. Lady Grantham would be highly displeased if she lost another maid, and David Baxter would never forgive me. Margie would have far too much to say; he’d never hear the end of it. Besides how would he go about killing her in the first place? He supposed he could strangle her… perhaps with some of her lady’s lace. But then the lace would get wrinkled and he’d have to iron it because Phyllis would be dead- and he really did hate ironing. Ah, what a pickle to be in._

“Who else have you told?!” Thomas demanded when he realized that cursing Phyllis’ name was a moot point, “Who?!” 

Despite having not yet thrown a slur at her, Phyllis looked quite unnerved, swallowing several times as she kept a hasty hand upon the door. Perhaps she was remembering how Thomas had once chased Margie all through the shop and into the backyard after she’d managed to spill tea on a rare book he’d purchased through painstaking saving. It had ended with Margie screaming to kingdom come till their father had found them, rousing all sorts of attention from the neighbors who were under the impression someone must have died as Margie wailed and wailed for Thomas to let her be. 

Thomas had not let her be till his father had drug him off. Even then, he’d gotten a severe belt licking. 

But he was twenty nine years old, and there was no one in the house who could lick him with a belt now… save for Carson. 

“…Moseley.” Phyllis said, a whimper in her voice as Thomas scowled to high heaven and threw his hands up in the air. 

“And Carson?!” Thomas demanded, his Stockport accent slipping loose at the horror of the thought; for some reason the idea of Carson knowing, more than any other person in the house, made him cold with dread. “Does Carson know?!” His voice cracked. 

“I haven’t told him.” Phyllis said at once, eager to get the words out of her mouth and the information on the air. 

“Nor has anyone else-“ Mrs. Hughes assured him, and Thomas breathed an enormous sigh of relief that prompted looks of pity from both women, “But make no mistake, Thomas, he will be hearing about this eventually- what with your health on the line-“ 

“My health-“ Thomas scoffed in denial, though his backside ached from sutures, “My health is no one’s concern-!” 

“You are a senior member of staff, one of the top tier!” Mrs. Hughes cried out, amazed that Thomas would speak so blase of his circumstances when they were growing close to dire, “It absolutely is our concern. If you are unwell the house slips below its standards!” 

“I’m perfectly fine!” Thomas snapped, raking his hands through his hair. Hughes did not look convinced. 

“And what about the injection sight, and the abscess?” Hughes asked, gesturing to Thomas’ right hip. 

“It’s taken care of-“ 

“And you haven’t been taking any more pills or injections-?” 

Thomas opened his mouth, ready to lie, but the look on Phyllis’ face stopped him dead. It was that cold withering look his mother had shot him time and time again across the dinner table; he had no defense for it. His silence was damning, and Mrs. Hughes brought her hands to her mouth as her eyes grew wide with fear. 

“Thomas…” It was the same short sharp cry that had shocked him to his senses so many years ago in the servant’s hall just before William Mason had socked him in the eye. It jarred him now just as it had then, and Thomas winced at the clear expression of pain upon Mrs. Hughes face. “Oh Thomas-“ She grabbed him hard on the arm; it baffled him to be touched by another human being. Despite the confusion upon his face, she did not let go. If anything she gripped tighter, “What are you doing, child? Stop!” 

No one had called him ‘child’ since his mother. He didn’t appreciate it. He was a grown man, capable of caring for himself. He did not need mothering, particularly from someone who wasn’t even his own mother. 

“It’s working!” Thomas snapped, shirking Mrs. Hughe’s grip on his arm to back even further into the corner, “It’s working so why shouldn’t I take it-?” 

“Thomas it’s not working.” Phyllis cut across, her voice strong despite the fear in her eyes; she was a brave woman, he’d give her that, “You are deluding yourself into thinking it’s working- you’re ill, confused, and tired- if you were in your right mind you’d-!” 

“Who says I’m not in my right mind?” Thomas snapped. 

“Those pills say you’re not!” Phyllis cried. 

They might have gone on like that for a good while longer, bickering like children with Mrs. Hughes between them keeping a poor referee, but Mrs. Hughes was not one to keep silent when she felt something needed to be said. 

“Thomas Barrow,” She commanded, and Thomas instinctively jerked back as Mrs. Hughes placed herself squarely before him. She was more domineering than a steel divider, effectively cutting off his argument with Phyllis as a fire burned behind her brown eyes, “I don’t like pulling rank you, I don’t like pulling rank on anyone, but I am ordering you to stop taking these pills this very night or I _will_ be going to Mr. Carson and telling him the entire sorry tale-“ 

Thomas’ stomach did an ugly flip at the thought of Carson shouting him down, a finger in his face and spit upon his cheek as he condemned Thomas once again. 

“And you have to cut this off with Daisy now!” Phyllis added over Mrs. Hughes shoulder. Mrs. Hughes took the bait, carrying on so that Thomas’ stomach sank lower and lower. 

“Daisy!” Mrs. Hughes was exasperated beyond the point of good humor now, “Thomas, you _know_ you don’t feel anything for her-“ 

“You’re wrong!” Thomas tried, “I do!”  
He desperately ignored the nagging voice in the back of his brain that warned Mrs. Hughes was right. That flashed an image of blonde curls and a new shade of purple. 

“Thomas you are not of that persuasion-“ Mrs. Hughes reminded him. It was by far the kindest way to declare Thomas a raving homosexual, and he was grateful for her tact on the subject, “You can’t possibly-“ 

“I know how I feel about her!” Thomas cried out, all the while subduing the tiny voice in his head that chanted _‘No you don’t’_. “I know how… I feel. I know.” 

But he didn’t know. And it terrified him. 

Thomas could work in broad concepts, could see the big picture and all the tiny cogs involved. He was an expert in clocks, taking pleasure in the most complex of cross words and math problems. He knew how to work within the confines of logic, how to bend the rules to his advantage and pull an outcome he most desired. He could likewise categorize his emotions, label them and box them away till he was in private. 

But he couldn’t label how he felt for Daisy. Not without damning himself… and that was something Thomas could not allow to happen. He was in too deep. He had to keep pretending, had to keep playing the game; had to keep rolling the dice till he forgot he was even rolling dice. Had to lie until he forgot he was even lying. 

He swallowed, an acidic taste burning in his throat as the slightest bubble of fear showed upon his face. 

Mrs. Hughes’ frown turned bitter. 

“I don’t think you do know.” Mrs. Hughes’ voice had taken a softer edge, perhaps moved by the fear in Thomas’ voice, “I think you think you know how you feel-“ 

“Don’t try and dissect my brain-“ Thomas blurted out, desperately throwing up a wall; they were getting too close to the crux of the subject. Mrs. Hughes seemed to realize that they were close to the heart of the matter. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Mrs. Hughes assured him, “But I know what electrotherapy can do to a normal, healthy person… I’ve seen it up close.” She swallowed, her voice becoming quite tense. Thomas suppressed the slightest shudder at the memory of hot wires beneath his skin; of a bucket in front of him slowly filling to the brim with vomit, “I’ve seen the fall out just as intimately… that’s why I’m begging you to stop now. Stop with the pills, stop with the shocks, stop with the entire nonsense. Or you will suffer even more-“ 

“More-?!” Thomas hiccuped, quite humored at the notion. His life had been filled with pain so often that he couldn’t imagine what ‘more’ looked like. Couldn’t fathom there being a ‘more’. 

“Thomas, please-“ Mrs. Hughes reached for Thomas’ arm, but her grip slid and she ended up taking his hand instead. Without meaning to, the tips of her fingers slipped over the farthest edges of his wounded left hand. 

Thomas jerked back as if burned, clutching his hand to his chest.   
He wondered if Mrs. Hughes could guess she was the first person to touch his hand, to hold it in any way, in years. 

It unnerved him. 

“Please.” Mrs. Hughes clasped her hands, understanding that he didn’t want to be touched, “Listen to me- I only have your best interests at heart-“ 

His _best interests_ \- was there even such a thing anymore? Was perpetual loneliness truly in his best interests. 

“The pills are working.” Thomas cut across her; Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips and closed her eyes before turning away. The act spurned a terrible shard of bitterness into Thomas’ heart. “I feel things for Daisy and I won’t damage her happiness- our happiness- just because you’re uncomfortable with the method I chose to bring it about-“ 

“I’m not uncomfortable, I’m not the one being electrocuted for it.” Mrs. Hughes’ tone had taken a decidedly bitter edge, her well of patience clearly run dry on the subject. 

Thomas swallowed. 

“… Make no mistake, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes warned, and he knew by her base nature alone that whatever she was about to say she would not be bluffing, “I will be speaking to Mr. Carson if you persist in this madness and I doubt he’ll be thrilled.” 

He looked away. 

The idea of Carson finding out, of Carson shouting and railing at him while Daisy looked on in awe and disgust was… sickening to him. The idea of Carson making a public mockery of him, of forcing him out of the house without a reference for indecent behavior- of Carson belittling him for daring to have hope _twice._

That same acidic taste was back in his throat. Thomas swallowed repeatedly, only to find his heart was hammering in his chest. The insanity of it, the impossibleness of it, made Thomas want to weep with despair. Had he been alone in that moment, he might have cried. Before Mrs. Hughes and Phyllis, however, he was powerless. Instead, he raved. 

“So let me get this straight-“ Thomas spat, using his hands like dividers as he sorted out the facts in a line for clear observance. “Let me- let me make sure that I completely understand.” His tone was vicious and conniving, a beastly thing, “I love Jimmy and I’m ostracized. I follow my instincts and I’m vile-“ 

“No!” Mrs. Hughes turned about to beg, “No- Thomas-“ She reached out to touch him once more but Thomas just jerked back. For a second time, his elbow smacked into the wall. He was certain he was going to leave a dent eventually. 

“So I change my instincts,” Thomas continued to snarl, looking at neither Mrs. Hughes nor Phyllis for fear of what he’d find in their faces, “I put myself through _hell_ to be a better man, a normal man, and allow myself to explore the possibility of being with Daisy- and I’m once again ostracized. I’m vile! So it doesn’t quite matter what I do or who I love, correct?” 

“Thomas, look at how you just worded your sentence.” Phyllis leapt at the chance to get a word in, taking a step forward. Thomas took another one back, suddenly finding himself pressed against the wall. “ _‘I love Jimmy’_ compared to _‘I explore the possibility’_. Do you love Daisy?” She asked. 

Thomas glared at her; to her credit she did not back down. How dare she pick apart his words- what was he, a crossword puzzle? 

“Yes.” Thomas snapped, though internally the concept alone made him wince. It didn’t feel natural, it didn’t feel right- there was no new shade of purple to be found in Daisy’s eyes at dusk. “It’s new to me, but yes. I do.” 

“I don’t think you do.” Phyllis shook her head, “I think if you did you would have just said _‘I love Daisy’-“_

“Oh well _excuse me_ Freud!” Thomas shouted, his temper popping as Phyllis rolled her eyes; in that moment she acted unnervingly like Margie, “Forgive me for going against your wise authority- don’t you have a psychology class to conduct-?!” 

“No, but I am on the verge of clipping you around the ears if you keep this up-!” Phyllis’ voice picked up, their argument resumed. Between them Mrs. Hughes let out a terse sigh, burying her face in her hands. They were like children once again. 

“Oh really?!” Thomas sneered loudly, “Well why don’t you-“ 

The door to Mrs. Hughes temporary sitting room opened; Carson strode in.   
All the blood drained from Thomas’ face. 

Carson carried with him a bottle of sherry and two glasses, looking quite disgruntled to find Thomas and Phyllis taking up Mrs. Hughes’ time so late in the evening. 

Thomas had no room to back up, he was pressed against the wall already. Instead he took a step to the side, further alienating himself in the corner as Carson entered the room and shut the door behind him. 

Carson watched as Phyllis immediately bowed her head, her own snappy comeback effectively swallowed as she pursed her lips tight together. Mrs. Hughes looked from Carson to Thomas, her eyes coming to rest at last upon Thomas himself. 

_“I will tell him,”_ her eyes seemed to say. 

“Have I interjected upon a private conversation?” Carson drawled, raising a bushy eyebrow at Mrs. Hughes. 

Mrs. Hughes looked back at Thomas. She waited with a withering expression. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Carson’s voice took a decidedly nasty turn. 

As it always did. 

Thomas bolted from the wall, bypassing both Hughes and Phyllis with such speed that neither had a chance to stop him. As he yanked the door open and left the sitting room behind, he heard Phyllis’s voice echoing shrilly after him: _“Thomas!”_

He did not stop. He could not stop.   
He needed air. He needed to think.   
He needed as much distance as humanely possible before Carson was told the entire sorry truth and came after him with a horsewhip. 

He heard another cry of his name as he passed the kitchens, but did not stop to investigate as he headed for the back door. Exiting into the area, Thomas headed up the steep steps to the side courtyard of Grantham House. He found it barren of company at such a late hour; iron benches and side tables sat clustered by ferns and thistle. This was the sort of place ladies might take their tea around midday. Thomas wasn’t a lady and he wasn’t in the mood for tea. He was in the mood for silence, for distance, and so he opened the iron gate that divided private property from the rest of Essex square to storm out onto the cobblestone. The rain had let up, leaving a cool mist in the late night air that bordered on a chill. The cobblestones were painted from reflected light, bouncing images of the moon and street lights every few feet so that Thomas was walking on a road of perpetual color as he crossed Essex Square and into an adjacent park that was mercifully empty. It was a bare, bitter thing, made of a few scant trees and shrubs that interlocked with winding sidewalk and a few benches so that traffic was divided on either side. Thomas slumped against a brick wall, his hands biting against the unforgiving stone. With each shaky breath that he drew, he considered his options and found them paling. 

This little game he was playing was about to become far too risky. Should Carson learn the entire truth, Thomas would be outed and ruined. Again. 

And this time… Daisy would be involved as well. 

He was determined that he feel something for her, that he scrape up within himself some meagre form of affection to use as a barrier (however flimsy) against Phyllis, Bates, Anna, Hughes- everyone who attempted to tell him how he felt and why. He knew he felt something for Daisy; he didn’t know what. He couldn’t properly list it as love, striking it with similarity to what he felt for Phyllis perhaps… a strange sisterly devotion to someone who wasn’t his actual sister. 

But there was more. 

Daisy was his way out, his way up. If he could convince himself into having a relationship with her, into having candid emotions for her, then he could live a life actually worth waking up for. No longer the dull bitter resentment of being on the fringes of society. He could know family, know love… but would it ever be love for Daisy? 

Could he ever love Daisy?   
Thomas didn’t know, and it scared him senseless. 

~*~

Beryl watched Elsie Hughes escort Thomas into her makeshift office with an air of great trepidation, her thick fingers twiddling nervously around a stirring spoon as Daisy packed a large set of mixing bowls into thick padding of brown paper for their journey back home. Daisy was humming to herself, smiling sweetly as she packed smaller bowls into larger ones with thick padding in between each letter. The crinkling of paper filled the air, obscuring Beryl’s thoughts as she cast her eyes over Daisy. Took her in, smiling and rosy cheeked. 

A bitterness filled her heart, ugly and cold.   
She knew what had to be done. 

“Daisy…” Beryl paused, setting down her wooden stirring spoon to drift towards the kitchen island where Daisy was working so diligently. 

_‘Such a good girl’_ Beryl thought with a twinge of regret. 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Is it urgent?” Daisy asked with a tiny huff of exertion as she lifted the set of mixing bowls into a wooden crate, “I have to finish packing this lot before bed if we’re to leave on time tomorrow-“ 

“It is urgent.” Beryl admitted. Daisy frowned, setting down a collection of sharp knives wrapped in leather that she’d just picked up to pack. “Don’t worry about the rest, I’ll handle it.” 

Daisy looked quite nervous; Beryl could not blame her. 

“Daisy…” Beryl reached out, at first thinking only to take the knives from Daisy (god forbid she receive the news with a sharp object in hand; instead Beryl’s touch strayed to Daisy’s fingers, resting there for a moment as she observed how small and slim Daisy’s hands were. They were covered in bruises and burns- the mark of any good chef… but they were still the hands of a young woman. A beautiful young woman.

“I don’t know how to say this-“ Beryl paused, a tightening sensation gripping her chest; it was almost like the anxiety attack she’d suffered the night of the concert, “but y’have to cut this off with Thomas.” 

“What?” Daisy demanded; her hand jerked away from Beryl’s. Beryl looked up to find Daisy affronted, furious, her brown eyes burning with a proud fire that Beryl had put there through years of intensive grilling. 

Luckily for Beryl, her own fire was just as hot. “Thomas isn’t the man for you-“ Beryl urged, her voice growing strong; Daisy scoffed at this, far from amused. With hard movements she jerked her limbs about, packing each instrument now as if it had done her a personal wrong. 

“And what would you know about the man for me, the way you thrust William on me when I wasn’t even interested in him?” Daisy demanded. 

_‘Good god, girl.’_ Beryl groaned inwardly _‘Get off that damn cross.’_

“I know it’s not Thomas!” Beryl snapped. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Phyllis Baxter sneak into Hughes’ temporary office. As she opened the door, Beryl heard Thomas’ shout of derision: _“Return to the scene of the crime?!”_

“And why not?” Daisy demanded, glaring full out now, “What’s so awful about Thomas? Why does everyone hate Thomas?” 

Her voice was just getting hotter and hotter by the minute; she’d be shouting any second now if she wasn’t careful. 

“Everyone does not hate Thomas-“ Beryl sneered, exasperated. Honestly the idiocy of it all. “Thomas is… difficult to like-!” 

_‘Thomas is a badly tempered whiny child that needs a good wholluping from Carson’s belt’_ Beryl though bitterly. 

“Is he?” Daisy was unconvinced, her voice still far too loud, “I don’t think he is! I think people judge him too quickly, and hold too many things from the past against him!” 

“Daisy, he’s not exactly a gentleman-“ Beryl snorted at the very idea. 

“Yes he is!” Daisy shrieked, finally shouting outright. 

“Good lord girl keep your voice down or you’ll bring Carson on us!” Beryl shouted back. Daisy winced at this, bitter and scowling as she continued to pack. Eager to diffuse the tension, Beryl fetched a lukewarm pot of tea and poured both of them a cup, passing tea and saucer over to Daisy for her to drink. She did so with a scowling temperament not unlike Thomas himself. 

_‘If you start acting like him I’m going to quit this job, I swear it.’_ Beryl thought. The last thing Downton needed was a second Thomas; Jimmy Kent had been bad enough. 

“I know he’s a gentleman.” Daisy grumbled into her teacup, her vacant hand drumming upon the cool rim of her saucer, “He treats me like a lady. He’s never done anything untoward or fast-“ 

“I’m sure he hasn’t.” Beryl sneered; Thomas wouldn’t touch a girl with a ten foot pole. Daisy’s innocence was practically as safe as it had been when she was single- 

A loud shattering sound shocked Beryl senseless; Daisy had slammed her drained teacup down, onto the saucer with such force it had broken into several pieces. Beryl gaped, agog at Daisy’s sudden change in behavior. She was _seething!_

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Daisy shouted in a rage; there were tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. They were filling with hurt, just like the time Ivy had gone on a date with Jimmy and come back wiser, “Why do you _always_ have to make ugly comments about him when he’s been nothing but lovely to me?! He believes in me- he lifts me up!” Daisy pointed to her heaving breast, “He’s smart, funny, and he listens to me when I’m alone or afraid. He’s everything I could ever want, and you treat him like…like… like he’s a joke!” Daisy shrieked, “Like he’s a big dumb joke! You all do!” 

Beryl winced in spite of herself. She was guilty of making jokes about Thomas’ persuasion- she knew it well. But good lord it wasn’t like they did it to his face or held it against him-! 

But it seemed it didn’t matter to Daisy whether they did it to his face or not. A barb was still a barb and she appreciated none of it. 

God forbid Thomas ever heard them talking about his persuasion with derision. It would probably humiliate him. 

Beryl felt a twinge of regret uncoil inside of her. She set her teacup down with a soft clinking noise upon its saucer and reached across the island to pick up the remains of Daisy’s broken saucer. 

Daisy turned away, taking several deep drawing breathes. She was like a steam engine revving up for a second round. 

“Daisy…” Beryl murmured, all the wind sucked from her sails as she cradled the broken shards in her plump hands, “Don’t be like that… I know Thomas is a good person, I do.” 

Daisy’s shoulders relaxed just a little. Beryl pursed her lips. 

Suddenly she could recall with vivid clarity how Thomas had hid in her pantry for months after “the incident”. Head in hands and slumped on the floor between the sacks of flour and baking soda. Beryl had pretended not to hear him sniffling. Had prepared his trays each night with care and made sure to always include a slice of pudding. Had offered him an orange every so often or demanded he tray a piece of fudge simply because he was sitting there and ought to be doing something of use even while in a gloom. 

“I know because I’ve seen it.” Beryl admitted, her voice quite soft now. “I’ve always seen it.” She admitted as an afterthought. Daisy glanced at her, at the shards in her hands. 

“But there’s more to Thomas than you know.” Beryl continued on, setting each shard down as she might the pieces of a puzzle, “There’s a reason why he has such trouble in life, why he makes so many enemies without even trying.” 

Daisy suddenly looked unsure; Beryl seized her chance. 

“Daisy, think of how paranoid he is.” Beryl urged, “How mean he can be… haven’t you ever wondered why?” 

Daisy glanced down, her mouth open but silent. Beryl continued on. 

“Why would he be paranoid or mean, if he was all the things you say- which he is!” She added with care, “What’s there that you don’t know, eh?” 

“I-“ Daisy mumbled. 

“Would I steer you wrong?” Beryl added, urgently. 

“ I don’t think you’d do it intentionally.” Daisy admitted, her brow furrowing as she took the shards up in her own hand and tossed them in the bin by the sink. They clattered to the bottom of the tin, making a slight racket, “But you’re doing it right now.” 

“Daisy-“ Beryl groaned, exasperated, “Thomas is not what you think he is-!” 

“I know him better than you do-“ 

“You don’t know everything-“ 

“Then what don’t I know?!” Daisy demanded, her eyes beginning to glow once more, but before Beryl could pronounce the news and bear witness to the fall, Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room door burst open to reveal Thomas. Pale and shaking, he was a far cry from the normal terror that stalked the halls of Downton Abbey; he seemed intent on fleeing the country at the pace he pursued. 

“Thomas-!” Daisy chased after him, abandoning Beryl in the kitchen to dash into the hall. 

“Daisy, wait a moment-!” Beryl beseeched, but Daisy would hear none of it. By the time that the words were out of Beryl’s mouth, Daisy was already gone. 

Beryl sagged, the weight of the world upon her meaty shoulders as she hung her head. 

~*~

The sudden pounding of heeled shoes upon the slick pavement brought Thomas back to the present; he was jarred out of his thoughts, forced to face the sudden approach of Daisy. It was like a personal mirage from hell, brought out to torment him in his weakest moment. 

Daisy was anxious in her gray kitchen smock and sensible heels, looked pained and unsure as she stepped off the street and onto the grimy park walk. Thomas wiped his face hurriedly with the back of his hand, taking in several calming breathes as he tried to control his facial expressions. 

_“I will tell Daisy, Hughes, Patmore… everyone. Everything. I will tell them the whole bitter truth and we’ll see how you like it.”_

Thomas winced, and broke down clutching his face in his hands. 

“Thomas, what’s wrong-?” 

Suddenly it was her comforting him, her hands upon his face and neck, attempting to console him even as he refused to meet her eye. 

“Thomas, you look horrible, what happened? What did Mrs. Hughes say to you?” She cupped his cheek and found it wet- without knowing what he was doing he clutched at her hand desperate to hold onto her sympathy and kindness for as long as possible before it turned into ugly scorn. Before she never looked twice at him again. 

“Daisy…” His voice broke as he said her name, “Daisy, I… There are things you don’t know about me. If you did know you’d… despise me. You’d loath me. You’d think me the foulest creature on Earth-“ 

She pulled his face up at last; he found her watching him cautiously, searching his eyes for something he was unsure she could even see. 

“That’s ridiculous-“ She scoffed, though there was no bite in her tone and she was far from scathing, “I won’t hear a word of it- I mean it!” She warned, nearly pressing a finger to his mouth when he made to start again, “What are you even talking about-?” 

“God…” Thomas broke down again, his head drooping to his chest; Daisy took a step closer- they were practically pressed together. “How do I explain to you-“ 

But before Thomas could even begin to contemplate the exhaustive and ugly reveal that would soon have to take place, a voice broke upon the air. 

“Good job says I! We worked hard tonight!” 

It came like a new shade of purple, coating the night air and stilling the sound of the street around them. It rolled like thunder overhead, a few black clouds now submerged under cover of darkness still threatening to drop rain. Thomas could taste the electricity, the anticipation upon the air, and suddenly his heart began to pound, his mouth drying up for the second time that night as. With incredibly clarity, the kind of heavenly intervention so spoken about by the poets and artists of the world over, he came walking down the garden path with a company of five behind him. Three men, two girls, one of them Jack Ross. 

Jimmy Kent. 

Had Thomas not been sitting upon a brick wall, he would have fallen over. His knees felt weak, his toes numb; his entire body might have begun to sweat in that moment if he wasn’t so dreadfully cold from the night air. His entire focus, which until recently had been hyper-focused upon Daisy was ripped off of her to snap right onto Jimmy. 

And how could it not. 

“Is that’- is tha’ Jimmy?” Daisy declared. Thomas could not reply. 

Jimmy walked in through the night fog like an angel upon a cloud, his halo of golden hair askew and his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. He wore a suit, undone and untucked with a leather folder full of music sheets in his grip as he lead his merry group of five through the park like a king might a promenade. The step of his shoes on the wet pavement was a soldier’s beat in Thomas’ heart.

Thomas hitched a breath in spite of himself.   
_Sunshine eternal,_ a voice rang out in his head, clear as a bell. Even on a dark and rainy street, Jimmy lit up the world. 

Jimmy took three more steps, his glance drifting up to check the street over for traffic, but it stopped short on Thomas. 

For a moment Jimmy stared, taking him in perched upon the brick wall with Daisy’s hand upon his cheek. 

Then, he broke into a wild grin, and night turned to day. 

“Thomas?!” Jimmy demanded, taking wide challenging steps as he set his music upon the brick wall to open both his arms wide in giddy delight, “Thomas Barrow is that you?!” 

Daisy took a step back, a smart move in hindsight for Jimmy lunged at Thomas to grab and shake his hand so that Thomas’ arm was suddenly jiggling about and his hand was _burning_ from the heat of Jimmy’s grip. 

“Jimmy, it’s so good t’see you!” Daisy declared, chuffed that they should happen to run into one another on the street. Jimmy gave her his most charming smile (a dazzling thing that made Thomas wince in spite of himself), continuing to shake Thomas’ hand despite the fact that Thomas wasn’t shaking back. His elbow flopped about, a useless joint; Jimmy’s group of followers hung back appraisingly while Daisy bounced on her toes between the pair of them. Everyone was smiling; everyone was at ease. 

Everyone but Thomas. 

He wanted to know why; he wanted someone to give him an answer. He wanted someone to explain to him why this had happened, why when he was at his lowest point of weakness. Why had Jimmy appeared now, instead of when Thomas had kissed Daisy on Tuesday night? Why must Jimmy be so happy to see him when he could have instead been merely content or unaffected. A simple passing of two prior co-workers that tipped their hats to one another and went on. Why was Jimmy smiling? Why couldn’t Thomas smile back? 

“The hell are you doing here?” Jimmy demanded with glee, pulling back just a little so that their hands could fall back to their sides. He still stood far too close for Thomas’ liking; he could smell the Brilliantine in Jimmy’s hair- the peppermint upon his breath. “You cad- I never thought I’d see you in London- I’m sorry I haven’t written. I told you I wasn’t much good at it. Slipped my mind.” Jimmy clapped Thomas’ arm with ease. 

Thomas flinched; Jimmy dropped his hand at once. 

“Thomas?” Jimmy’s smile slipped just a tad- his eyes finally seeming to take in just how pale and shaky Thomas was. 

_‘Don’t stop smiling’_ a voice in his head begged, _‘For the love of God, smile till the sun goes out. Don’t leave me in darkness again.’_

“It’s good to see you, Jimmy.” Thomas began, his voice far too throaty and tight for his own liking. Where was the natural ease that he’d once known around Jimmy? Where was the warmth and calm he’d procured in Jimmy’s presence? Had the therapy sucked it away, leaving Thomas a hollow shell that not even Jimmy’s light could fill? The thought made him go cold, “Are you in the music industry now?” Thomas asked, his cue taken from an olive skinned woman with elegant hands holding a saxophone and a man beside her carrying a trumpet. Another man held a pair of drumsticks in his hands, terribly weatherbeaten things that looked ready to fall apart at the first crack of a drum. Jack Ross just stood at the back, arm in arm with a dark skinned beauty whose neck was draped in long strands of pearls. She had a plum of red feathers in her hair; clearly a woman who could be counted on for a good time. She was smiling with ease at Thomas, her teeth pearly white and glinting in the moonlight. Perhaps Jack was her fancy man. 

“We play at Murray’s Night Club on Beak Street… you might know it, it’s off of Shaftesbury Avenue.” Jimmy cast a lazy grin over his shoulder to his company. They were waggling eyebrows now, swaying back and forth as itchy fingers danced over jazz instruments and urged to play, “You ought to check it out, it’s a wild street-“ 

“Believe it or not I’ve already been there tonight.” Thomas mumbled, closing his eyes momentarily to pinch his brow where a stress knot was beginning to form. Of course Jimmy played off Shaftesbury. Of course he was on Beak street. It was all so fucking typical, so in character, that Thomas wanted to groan aloud. He dropped his hand, blinking his eyes rapidly at the burning sensation suddenly springing up from within. 

“I’m not surprised.” Jimmy agreed with ease, “You always knew how to swing-“ 

Thomas swallowed, looking away and out across the park. The night fog was beginning to thicken; the moon was directly overhead now. For some reason he found himself thinking of William Blake’s poem _‘Tyger Tyger’_ , the lyrics drifting through the shadows and the fog calling out to him to consider how queer it was that he and Jimmy were in a wooded scene. 

“Tyger tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night…” Thomas mumbled, unaware of the words slipping past his lips. He would have been unafraid in that moment in an actual tiger had stepped out of the darkness of the park. He could almost hear the growl of a beast as a motorcar passed by. 

Where was that shade of purple now? He supposed it had never existed at all, that it had only been a part of his imagination. 

“Thomas?” Jimmy speaking his name brought him back to the harsh reality of the situation. Thomas attempted to smile though it came out more like a grimace. Jimmy did not brighten up a second time, merely continued to stare with growing unease. “Are you alright? You look… awful.” 

Thomas swallowed again, a harsh knot was forming in his throat.   
Daisy stood at his elbow watching, waiting, concerned for his change in demeanor. 

“Fine.” Thomas said, quickly changing the subject. Jimmy would press, otherwise. He was certain, “What instrument do you play?” 

“Piano, you know me.” Jimmy snorted, gesturing to the sheets of music wrapped in leather and perched on the brick wall beside them. Jimmy scooped them up once more, tucking them under his arm, “Course, I sing sometimes too-“ 

“Jim!” The dark skinned beauty on Jack’s arm called out, her voice lilting and clear like a finely wrought bell, “Introduce us to your handsome friend!” 

“Not to you, woman!” Jimmy joked, waving a finger to dispel any lingering notions “This one is all mine-!” The others laughed; Jimmy threw an arm easily around Thomas’ neck. 

The feeling of Jimmy so close, smelling of peppermint and Brilliantine- of whiskey and cigarette smoke- Thomas couldn’t take it. Couldn’t handle the warmth. He shrugged Jimmy off at once, causing Jimmy to look around in dismay. The others weren’t laughing anymore. 

“Don’t.” Thomas shook his head, looking about. A bobby, a copper- anyone could be walking down the streets and what would they say then? Daisy looked just as dismayed as Jimmy, surprised at his cold behavior when before he’d been so warm to Jimmy. 

“Aww, c’mon Thomas-“ Jimmy tried for another easy laugh, but his eyes were twisting at the corners; he was scouring Thomas, now. Looking him up and down and taking in every detail. Thomas turned away, ashamed, afraid that Jimmy would be able to guess everything if he stared too close, “Don’t be so sore- no one’s around-“ 

Thomas had no response for that; no excuse to give. He bowed his head, taking a deep breath through his nose. 

Jimmy’s frown grew even deeper.   
He stepped around Thomas, coming up and under his chin to peer straight into his face so that Thomas could not hide nor look away. With his music sheets clutched to this chest and his expression turning naive in its worry, Jimmy almost looked like an innocent school chum eager to please- Thomas couldn’t stand it, couldn’t handle that youthful delight which so coated Jimmy… melted sugar that sweetened his skin and helped his hair to shine. 

Thomas was in over his head. Addicted to a candy laced in poison. 

“What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked, refusing to let Thomas look away, “You look awful- tell me the truth?” 

_‘Help me. I’m taking strange pills to numb my feelings and trying to date a woman. Help me I’m dying.’_ A voice begged in Thomas’ brain, almost itching out of his mouth. He clenched his teeth tight, eyes locked on Jimmy’s own. 

There it was, that new shade of purple; not warm and bloody from the red light of a setting sun but deep and dark from the moon overhead. An eggplant color that could not be matched anywhere, no matter how skilled the artist. Thomas wanted to lose himself in that color, to drown in it. To disappear forever in a shade mixed from both shadow and warmth. 

Thomas still hadn’t answered. 

“He’s just tired.” Daisy supplied; Jimmy glanced in her direction, his eyes still jerking back to Thomas’ face every so often as if to ask _‘Is this true?’_ “Lady Rose got married earlier today-“ 

“Well I’ll be dandy.” Jimmy mused, the tiniest grin creeping at the corner of his mouth. “Whose the lucky chap?” 

“An Atticus Aldridge.” Daisy explained again, “the only son of a Lord Sinderby. He’s very nice, or so we’re told.” 

“Handsome too I’ll bet.” Jimmy added, “Knowing Lady Rose-“ 

“Some would say-“ Daisy tilted her head this way and that, uncaring even as she took a blissful grin. 

“You would say!” Jimmy laughed, “I see that smile-!” 

“I haven’t been looking at him.” Daisy shrugged. Jimmy snorted in surprise. 

“Oi what’s this now?” He jeered in good humor, “Finally got yourself a man? I know it’s not Alfred, I see him for a bite at the pub every now and then- he still hasn’t got a girl. He’s in love with _Georges Auguste Escoffier-“_ Jimmy put on his most horrendous Parisian accent. A nasally thing that would have made Thomas laugh had he not been so close to vomiting into the bushes. Daisy laughed gayly, flushing as she glanced at Thomas. 

Thomas looked away, utterly ashamed. 

“Why don’t you come out for a drink with us?” Jimmy offered, gesturing over his shoulder at his group, “Tell us all about it- we’ve just got off shift and we’re parched!” 

At the word ‘parched’ several members of the party let out leering whooping calls. They were a cheery lot, make no mistake. Thomas could see how Jimmy had fallen in with them. 

How Thomas wished he could fall in with them too; could surround himself in jazz and simply forget the world. 

“What do you think, Thomas?” Daisy asked.   
Suddenly all eyes were on him once more. 

“We shouldn’t.” Thomas muttered, imagining what Carson might say if he found out Thomas has skulked off to a night club with Daisy close to midnight to have a drink with Jimmy Kent; he’d be livid, “Mr. Carson wouldn’t like it- it wouldn’t be a good idea.” 

“Don’t be like that-“ Jimmy whined. 

“I really shouldn’t, James.” Thomas cut him off, still refusing to look at him. Instead he fixed his gaze on the heels of the dame escorted by Jack Ross. They were far from sensible, high arched and glittering red; they matched her feathers. 

“…James?” Jimmy repeated his christian name with a snort of derision. Thomas pursed his lips, his eyes locked on those glittering red heels. “Since when have you called me James?” 

Thomas had no answer, once again. 

“… Did my letter work with the Bates?” Jimmy asked, his tone becoming clipped and irritated. He wanted answers and Thomas wasn’t giving them; Jimmy despised being left in a lurch with his friends. “Can you at least talk to me about that?” 

“Yes. It worked.” Thomas nodded, “Thank you for that.” 

“…So…” Jimmy’s voice trailed away into the night, “So are we saying goodnight? Is that it, then?” 

Thomas wanted to cry. 

“We have to.” He mumbled; his throat and eyes burned. 

_‘We have to say goodbye’_. A voice in his head whispered, _‘Or I’ll die.’_

“If you’re ever in my neighborhood, at least stop by so we can catch up-“ Jimmy grumbled, very put out indeed. 

Thomas’ lip quivered, he turned sharply away, by passing Jimmy so fast that he had no chance to see him one final time. He couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at Jimmy. If he did, he’d be lost. If he strayed, he would fall. 

“Thank you, James, but I doubt I’ll ever be in your anything. Goodnight.” Thomas spoke a rush and left just as quickly. 

“Thomas-!” Jimmy was calling out after him, affronted and angry at being left so coldly; Thomas continued to march forward across the street. He wouldn’t have stopped even if a motorcar was coming in that moment. He needed to get away, to get as far as possible from Jimmy. To lock himself in some dank dark corner of Grantham House and cry his eyes out before the agony sitting in his chest tore him asunder. Even as he walked, his chin quivered, eyes burning in the cold night air. 

_‘Eggplant’_ a voice mumbled in his head, _‘His eyes were the color of eggplant’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you guys thought Jimmy was never going to show up. 8}


	10. "I Will Show You Fear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excuse me, we need a fourth ale.” Mr. Mason smiled pleasantly at the bartender before he could leave out of earshot up the way. The bartender paused mid step, giving Mr. Mason a biting smile though he hardly shared the small warmth with the rest of their crowd. Indeed, when his eyes finally fell upon Thomas they were incredibly ugly and cold. 
> 
> And suddenly John realized what was about to occur. 
> 
> The bartender leaned in to leer, “I don’t serve animals.” with such malice and contempt that it stopped all conversation among their group clustered at the bar.

They left the next afternoon by train, taking the five o’clock out for Yorkshire. Around six, the family ate in the dining carriage and the staff devoured packed lunches produced by Mrs. Patmore… all except for Thomas who sat in the corner of the third class train compartment with his head bowed. Several sets of eyes were upon him despite the flourishing conversation and scrumptious sandwiches; it was only to be expected since everyone in the compartment effectively now knew Thomas’ ugly little secret save for Carson and Daisy. 

Carson was busy with his paper near the door, sandwich effectively devoured and pencil flicking over a crossword as Mrs. Hughes leaned in every so often to point to an answer to murmur her approval or disagreement. She made idle conversation with Mrs. Patmore who sat across from her folding and refolding the thick brown paper that had covered their sandwiches. The only sandwich left was Thomas’, a refused thing that sat cold and lonely atop Mrs. Patmore’s lap. Every so often she tried to catch his eye, tried to get him to eat; Thomas ended up staring out the window instead to avoid her gaze. The window was steadily growing darker as the sun sank lower and lower into the west. In the reflection of the glass, he watched the Bates with their heads bowed, going over a list Anna seemed to have made of revisions that needed to be made to their London home. Phyllis and Moseley were across from them, talking about the Wallace Collection again and making eyes like they were the only ones in the compartment. Denker sat across from Thomas scowling heavily at him. He did not care to meet her eye. He did not care to meet anyone’s eye. Daisy sat next to Thomas, reading _The Waste Land_ by T.S. Eliot. 

“This is incredible.” Daisy murmured; Thomas shifted the barest inch, cocking his head to the right so that Daisy would know he was listening. She turned into him, their knees suddenly touching as she pointed her toes toward him and offered her book. “Listen to this: _“And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you. I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”_ Daisy paused, looking up at him in awe. “Imagine that. Imagine being so lost that even a handful of dust scares you.” 

_Or the color purple_ , Thomas thought bleakly. 

The train rolled on and they arrive home close to nine. 

Three days later, the sun rose on a crisp winters morning to start the pledge march towards the center of Grantham where the memorial service was to be held at ten. Thomas rose early as usual, helping to serve breakfast to the family before returning back upstairs to his room to fetch his best suit. He’d gone to London with the knowledge that he would be rescuing Andy Parker from Denker’s clutches, and so the suit he’d worn had been far from his best. Representing the family outside of the estate was a serious business, and one that Thomas did not take lightly given all that Lord Grantham had done for him over the years. It had moved Thomas, deeply, for Lord Grantham to defend him against the police when Alfred had called them after “the incident”. Thomas had watched the entire affair go down from a neighboring tent, sunk upon a seat with Anna at his elbow frantically whispering _“It’s alright”._

He hadn’t believed her till the police had left, and even then he’d had trouble registering it. He supposed, looking back on it, he had been in shock. 

Thomas brushed his best suit with care; he’d not worn it since Matthew Crawley’s death. Shocking to think that had been almost four years ago.

Four years since the day Jimmy had walked into his room.   
Without even realizing it, Thomas looked to his door, only to be startled by the sudden gentle rapping that came there. 

Thomas paused mid brush, eyes narrowing as he glared at his door. The only people who cared to talk to him were Phyllis and Daisy; he highly doubted either would be visiting him on the men’s hall. At least… he hoped not. 

Setting his brush down upon his deck, Thomas opened his door with a wary edge of precaution. 

He deflated into a sour mood of sheer irritation when he saw it was merely Bates on the other side, bowler hat perched jauntily atop graying hair and eyes crinkled in the tiniest of smiles. 

“Hello.” Bates greeted him. “May I come in?” 

“No.” Thomas made to close his door; Bates threw his foot in the gap between the door and the jam so that the door was effectively brought to a halt. Thomas glared at him, wishing he had a cricket bat so he could beat the man over his swollen head. 

Bates brought up a hand, pushing hard against the door so that it opened once more. 

“Let me try that again.” Bates’ voice was sharp with bizarrely placed humor. “I’m coming in.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes, snatching his brush up from the desk again and doing his best to ignore Bates presence in his room. Bates for his part was relatively easy to ignore as he hung back and allowed Thomas to continue brushing his suit. Bates moved about the perimeter of his room, taking in the threadbare quilt folded at the base of Thomas’ bed and bottle of pills sitting out on his desk. 

Thomas paused mid-brush, realizing too late the evidence laid bare before Bates; were he to reach for the pill bottle now it would be obvious he was trying to hide them. To his credit Bates did not reach for them either, instead choosing to look at the picture of Edward atop Thomas’ bureau. 

“Why are you here?” Thomas asked, eager to get Bates’ eyes off Edward’s face. It was disturbing to have the two halves of his life meet in such a way. He’d never imagined a day would come when Bates would know what Edward’s face looked like; he couldn’t say he was thrilled that the day had arrived. 

“I came to see how you found London.” Bates said. 

“Much the same as you did.” Thomas snorted, resuming brushing his suit. 

“The impromptu trip to Tipperary was unappreciated.” 

“Indeed.” 

Bates kept looking at Edward, noting the details of his uniform. The crown and cross upon Edward’s sleeve cuffs were a dead give away of his rank: Lieutenant colonel. 

 

“I heard you ran into Jimmy. And called him James.” Bates added, turning to Thomas. Thomas was careful to mask his expression in a state of benign servants blank, slowing only slightly in his brushing as he narrowed his eyes. 

“Who told you that?” Thomas set his brush down, fingers dancing upon the edge of his desk like a twitching spider as he picked up his tie to throw it about his neck. Blue and red… the house colors. 

“Daisy mentioned it to Anna.” Bates needn’t explain the rest; Anna kept no secrets from Bates, “Obviously she wouldn’t have known the significance because you still haven’t told her the truth.” 

“Forgive me if I’m not eager to talk about prior bursts of insanity with the girl I love.” Thomas grumbled, threading his tie. Bates didn’t flinch. 

“You don’t love her, Thomas.” 

“You seem very sure of that.” Thomas straightened his tie, pulling it snug. 

“Because I am.” Bates took offense to nothing, which irritated Thomas heavily as it ruined all his fun; what was the point of talking to Bates if they weren’t going to argue? They certainly couldn’t be _friends_. Such a notion was laughable. “And if you weren’t taking these pills you would be too.” 

Bates picked up the pill bottle, rattling it a little so that the pills bounced against the brown glass. Thomas gave Bates his best glare… an ugly and intimidating thing. Bates did not care, his smile unfading as he held the pill bottle between them with all the smug air of someone holding up a crown title. 

Thomas reached out and took the pill bottle from Bates, wishing once more for that cricket bat as he set the pill bottle back down with a firm _‘smack’_ upon his desk. 

Thomas shrugged on his jacket and grabbed his suit brush from the desk to open a drawer and drop it unceremoniously inside without thinking. He winced as he realized he’d just dropped the brush into a drawer full of clock parts, and opened it at once to find that the brush had landed square in a box of nuts and bolts made from delicately bent copper. Thomas picked up the brush and set it aside upon the desk again, carefully separating bergeon standard wheel screws from ratchet and crown. Bates was intrigued by it all, noting that Thomas’ drawers were full of clock making parts. 

Thomas did not appreciate the nosy air of Bates’ extended visit; he shoved the drawer closed still discontent with the state of the screws but un eager for Bates to stay any longer. 

“Are you done here?” Thomas growled. 

“Are you?” Bates asked. 

Thomas let out a slow breath through his nose, once again finding himself having to talk his inner demons down from the prospect of murdering someone. 

_He couldn’t kill Bates. Bates was bigger than him, and more violent. Thomas would have to hire help, and he lacked the funding at the moment what with most of his extra pounds being spent on conversion therapy. If O’Brien were still around and his ally that would be one thing but Thomas was a one man show now. He had to respect what that meant, plotting wise._

 

“We’re getting ready to walk down to the memorial.” Bates said, “Will you join us?” 

“Who is us?” Thomas asked. They exited his room, and Thomas shut the door behind them. 

“Anna, Baxter, Moseley, Hughes, Carson… Daisy.” Bates rattled off the names.

“I’ll go for Daisy’s sake.” 

They took to the stairs, moving at a slightly decreased pace given Bates’ cane. At one point in their lives, Thomas would have moved faster just to irk Bates, just to make him sweat. Now, Thomas was content to go as slow as him, if only to put off dealing with the others for a few more minutes. 

“I’d like to think you’d join for all of us.” Bates said. They rounded a corner in the stair well, taking the third flight down and passing the main floor. “It isn’t a crime to want to walk with your friends, Thomas.” 

“I don’t have friends, Mr. Bates.” Thomas’ tone was icy if not the slightest bit tired, “I have co-workers.” 

“It isn’t a crime to walk with them, either.” 

“Then walk on.” 

~*~  
Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow reached the bottom of the stairs in tandem, stepping past Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes who was donning her hat and pinning it carefully to her head, before cutting through the hallway towards the outer area where a throng was congregating as more and more people came down ready to make their way to town. Mr. Carson watched Barrow round the corner with Bates in slight trepidation, wary of every move Barrow made even before he’d made it. 

If Carson had a week, he could not list all the reasons why Barrow set him on edge. The most prominent ( _the most important,_ Carson reminded himself) was that Barrow was loathsome. A deviant that went against the very nature of God and spat on the face of the Church of England. His stance was too proud, his chin too set against the ways of the world. He’d no doubt decided long ago that he was above the rest of them. Too good to be labeled a ‘common servant’, too smart to be ‘hoodwinked’ by the kindness of other men, too charming to waste his time on the fairer sex. His very voice set Carson on edge, that suave upper drawl meant to soothe the ears of the nobility and keep them none the wiser. Coupled with his impenetrable ‘servants blank’ Barrow was a disturbing creature. 

_‘It is not real’_ Carson had to remind himself time and time again. The voice, the face, all of it were the smaller parts of a greater whole- a mask that had only fallen once before Carson. 

That had been a week from hell, and Carson was happier for every day that passed and put it farther behind him. 

He’d known something had been wrong with Barrow, had known it from the moment Barrow had walked through the servant’s area at the age of fifteen and took on the job of head hallboy. Climbing the ranks had been easy for him; he’d been a hard worker and merciless in his competitive streak- but something had been…. _off._

_“I have something to tell you, Mr. Carson,”_ Alfred Nugent had been utterly shaken- a clear sign of how disturbed Barrow was that he could make even Alfred falter in his judgement. _“Something that I’ve seen- something that’s disturbed me- that isn’t right.”_

He’d told Alfred to take it on the chin, soothed him in the secure knowledge that he was the proper sort. That _he_ was a man, and could handle the world even if it felt overwhelming at times. 

Even when he’d confronted Barrow for his disgusting and vile behavior, Barrow had not slipped in his mask. Suddenly Carson had found himself facing the servant’s blank after years of watching it directed at his Lordship or the Dowager. It had been… unnerving. 

The mask had only slipped when James’ shoddy behavior had come to light. Carson had taken no pleasure in telling Barrow that he was to leave without a reference, knowing all to well what he was about to damn the man to, but it had seemed that Barrow’s true distress had come not from the lack of the reference but the fact that James had declared it to be done. 

_“This wasn’t Jimmy’s idea- someone’s put ‘im up t’it.”_ Barrow’s Stockport accent had been bizarre to hear after years of his upstairs drawl. It was as if Carson could suddenly see Thomas, instead of Barrow. Thomas- a man with feelings and a heart… no matter how hidden, _“He wouldn’t be s’unkind… no’ left t’himself.”_

Carson had never seen Thomas again; after that fateful week the Barrow mask had been firmly wedged back in place… much to the displeasure of Carson, Hughes, Patmore, Bates and everyone else under the sun on God’s green earth. 

Which was precisely why Carson couldn’t understand Mr. Bates walking with Barrow as if they were _chummy._

“Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but I’ve never seen Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow willingly walking side by side.” Carson grumbled; Mrs. Hughes’ perked up, satisfied with pinning her hat and now working to fasten her coat securely about her throat. “I thought something might be going on the night before we left London. Now I’m almost certain trouble is afoot.” He caught her looking at him warily, “Do you know something I don’t?” 

“…I wish I could say, Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes said, quite bitter though naturally Carson could not guess as to why, “It’s not my place to.” 

As far as Carson was concerned, Mrs. Hughes’ empathy and kindness were wasted upon Barrow. 

“You know you can always talk to me, Mrs. Hughes.” Carson murmured; Mrs. Hughes smiled at him, genuinely pleased to hear him say it. “Always. No matter the subject- I am your eternal confidant.” 

Even if she did not know it yet, she would soon. She would know everything soon.

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes sounded truly touched, “But it may surprise you to know I already knew that.” And with that she winked at him. Carson could not help but smile. “Let’s go.” 

And so they went. 

~*~

Thomas ignored Carson as best he could, which was quite well after fourteen years of handling his horse shite, passing through the end of the hall to come upon a gaggle of people clustered just outside the door to the courtyard. It seemed Bates had been sent to fetch Thomas, or something of the like, for Daisy was among the group and beamed with clear satisfaction when both Bates and Thomas stepped over the threshold only to be followed out a short minute later by Carson and Hughes. It was odd, seeing the likes of Anna and Phyllis in day clothes- Anna wore a smart coat and a fashionable hat both of navy blue, a peach dress beneath that had a sensibly high collar. She linked arms with Bates- ever content to be on his arm at every given opportunity. 

Thomas winced, unable to hide his discomfort from his face when he suddenly thought of Jimmy, and how he would never be able to hold him upon his arm. When Daisy reached out, pink dress and all- Thomas almost wanted to shy away. 

She hesitantly linked their arms, noticing his reluctance even as they began their march towards the center of town. Patmore was ahead of their entire group, bitter and already clutching her handkerchief as she blew her nose and dabbed at her inflamed eyes. 

“You look smart.” Daisy complimented him. Thomas cocked an eyebrow, untaken by the gesture. Anyone could look smart- acting smart was another question entirely. They passed through the gates of the courtyard onto the outer lane that lead to the garage and gardens; they took a right, heading for the outskirts of Downton Abbey and the main gravel walk towards the village road. 

This was the same path Thomas walked with care at night; he knew it well by now. 

“It’s a beautiful day out.” Daisy said as they caught up with Patmore who blew her nose again and gave Daisy the most resentful of looks. 

“Oh beautiful enough, if you’re alive to see it!” Patmore all but wailed, her voice thick as if she suffered from a particularly damning head cold. She stormed off towards the village, marching as if going to war, leaving the rest of them in a trail of her dust as Daisy balked at her rude departure and made a face of dismay. 

“Well she’s not wrong.” Thomas grumbled under his breath. _Every day above ground_ and all that nonsense, he supposed. 

“I don’t understand why his lordship wants her to go down to the memorial-“ Daisy looked to Thomas for answers- hardly a good habit to fall into. 

Thomas knew nothing but the color purple. 

“He’s not an unkind man.” Thomas said, his voice almost as hoarse as Patmore. “I’m hoping his reason becomes clear when we get there.” 

Otherwise they were going to endure Patmore’s griping for nothing; Thomas was already on the verge of tearing his hair out, he didn’t need any more ammo for that gun. 

“How are you?” Daisy asked. They’d made it to the main road and hung a left for the village. “Truly?” 

Thomas opened his mouth to answer but nothing adequate came out. 

_‘Want to hear a fantasy I have about marrying Jimmy in the woods?’_ Thomas mind offered, _‘Did you know that Jimmy’s are dark purple at night? Almost the color of an eggplant, but better- I can’t really describe it. You have to look at them to see what I mean.’_

He winced again and bowed his head. 

“You seem awful glum after the other night.” Daisy murmured, almost in his ear. They were walking in a group, it was difficult to garner some privacy. Thomas kept his eyes locked on the dirt road beneath his feet. 

“I’m fine.” Thomas supplied shortly though every word of it was a lie, “I was tired. Don’t worry about it, I’ve rested now.” 

Daisy might have registered his words but that hardly meant she believed them. Instead she just squeezed his arm tighter and fell into silence as they walked. 

Once more, Thomas had to reflect just how dire his situation was if it rendered Daisy mute. 

As they walked, Thomas felt like a listless leaf blowing on a haggard winter breeze. By this time of year, much of the foliage had fallen; Thomas had plenty of physical comparisons to align himself with as a gust of winter air picked up scattered leaves and sent them flying into the air. 

If he was a leaf, he’d like to be the frond of a willow tree- something long and and soft that Jimmy could pluck and run his fingers through. He’d take Thomas on a walk, uncaring for other greens as he continuously stroked Thomas’ soft edges and curled them about his experimental hands. Jimmy would return to his flat and press Thomas between the edges of a particularly weather beaten journal… and for the rest of his life Thomas would sit secretly wedged amongst Jimmy’s most private thoughts. Till green became black from ink. 

They arrived in town and found it filling with people both young and old. Servicemen were in uniform, many of the older men about town having donned prior uniforms they’d worn during earlier wars. Thomas watched as Bates tipped his bowler hat to a few of them, a spike of ugly jealousy running through him as the men greeted him warmly with the wave of a hand or the tip of a hat. 

Yet another distinction between the pair of them. 

“Thomas-“ Daisy was trying to get his attention, pulling gently upon his arm so that he looked down to find her nodding towards Mr. Mason who was standing some feet away greeting Mrs. Patmore as kindly as he could while she continued to blow her nose and glare bitterly at the rest of the world. Mr. Mason wore a smart suit, his flat cap slightly askew in the hard winter breeze. He was looking for Daisy, and when he found her upon Thomas’ arm he bristled for a moment before smiling for Daisy’s benefit alone. 

“You ought to go.” Thomas murmured. Bates was returning from mingling with the crowd, joined by Moseley and Phyllis who were arm in arm (though that was hardly surprising). Anna was beaming; none had yet to notice Thomas and Daisy on the outskirts. 

“Come with me?” Daisy asked, trying to pull him towards Mr. Mason. 

“I shouldn’t.” Thomas mumbled, “He doesn’t like me. He ought to be in good spirits for the day.” 

Daisy looked truly saddened by his words. She rubbed the inside of his arm tenderly. “Then let me talk to him?” She asked. 

“Not today.” Thomas shook his head; today was hardly about him, “He’s got enough on his mind.” 

“And you don’t?” 

“I can keep.” 

Daisy was moved by his words, though Thomas could hardly understand why. There was no significance in them, no real importance save that Thomas understood his place when it came to public ceremonies and aimed to stay out of the spotlight if he could- 

Daisy stood up on tiptoe, and before he could stop her kissed him very softly upon the cheek. Thomas flushed, eyes widening in fear as he looked around at once to make sure no one else had seen. 

Hughes was consoling Patmore, who was ready to burst into tears.   
Bates was speaking in depth with Moseley, Anna and Phyllis nattering away.   
Carson was preening beside Lord Grantham in the center of the square before the massive marble monolith they’d come to celebrate, shaking hands with members of a committee and looking right pleased with himself. 

Mr. Mason had seen; he looked pale, his face twisting at the corners into the tiniest grimace. 

“I’ll find you after the ceremony.” Daisy whispered in his ear. “But I want you to know how proud I am of you today.” 

She slipped free of his arm with a final squeeze to his bicep, and turned to walk off towards Mr. Mason. Thomas touched his cheek where her lips had lingered, the tips of his fingers trembling as he realized just how lucky he’d been that no one had seen. 

“That was rather forward of her.” 

Thomas jumped, his stitches singing with pain in his hip as he turned on the spot to find Bates barely a foot or two behind him with Anna, Moseley, and Phyllis. All four were watching him with great knowing, Phyllis smiling bitterly while Moseley just looked somber. Anna kept glancing about as if she half expected Carson or Hughes to rail down upon them at any moment and reprimand Thomas for being kissed upon the cheek. 

So it seemed all four of them had seen. Thomas luck was never short for running out. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Thomas grumbled, dropping his hand at once and stalking off towards the war memorial. 

“Of course, Thomas.” Bates called after him, though Thomas hardly heard him over the crowd. 

It once would have been easy to hide himself amongst a crowd near the back. He could have easily distanced himself from the rest of his co-workers, hiding in the shadow while they frolicked in the sunlight and basked in their self-righteous delusions. Unfortunately for Thomas it seemed they’d now decided that since he was ‘dallying’ with Daisy (or whatever the hell he was doing, did it even have a term) he was clearly meant for frolicking with them. Thomas tried to hide in one corner of the crowd but Phyllis and Moseley found him and tried to drag him back. Thomas then scuttled off to the other corner of the crowd just before the start of the ceremony and thought himself quite safe between an anonymous farmer and the owner of the Grantham Arms whom Thomas only knew by face. But then Bates had shown up at his elbow with Anna, and Phyllis had appeared at his other side with Moseley in tow. He was effectively sandwiched between two happy couples and he couldn’t be more bitter about it. 

The soppy bastards. 

“They went with songs to the battle-“ Carson preached to the crowd before them, chest puffed out with pride and papers in hand as he dedicated the memorial in the name of king and country. 

He as full of shite, as per usual. There had been no songs sung in the Somme. Thomas had been there for three years; he would know. 

“They were young, straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.”   
Until they were blown to pieces, hacked to smithereens, and left to die in a shallow grave. 

“They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, they fell with their faces to the foe.”   
Until they weren’t staunch. Until the odds were counted, and they realized they were utterly outnumbered. That they were about to die for nothing. Until they ran for their lives only to be shot down by ‘friends’ eager for a pay raise or held up a lighter and prayed to God for deliverance. 

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.” 

Thomas thought of Edward in that moment, oddly contented by Mr. Carson’s shite words at the prospect that Edward would never be wearied by age, nor condemned by the years. 

Wrists slit, yes… but happier in his grave by far.   
Or so Thomas hoped. He supposed now he’d never know either way.   
He could not help but wish that he’d been able to save Edward, been able to stop Edward, been able to _remind_ Edward that just because he was blind did not mean he was a doormat. 

Bates was watching him. 

Thomas caught his eye, remembering how Bates had stared at Edward’s picture atop his bureau. Bates smiled; Thomas did not smile back. 

The closing of the memorial tribute was put off if only for a few minutes more by Lord Grantham’s announcement that there was a final plaque yet to be revealed and would Mrs. Patmore be so kind as to follow? Mrs. Patmore, by this point, was a blubbering wreck with handkerchief out and Mrs. Hughes holding her steady upon the arm. The short walk around the memorial’s edge towards the outer corner of the village church where a plaque was being obscured by a cloth was a somber affair. After the plight of the bugle, many former servicemen were looking incredibly weary. Thomas noted Bates rubbing at his neck, as if pained by a tension there. A group of the men were heading towards the Grantham Arms, blowing off the final plaque completely as if already knowing that it had nothing to do with them; they looked ready to drown their sorrows. Thomas was glad for their vacancy. The way that they stared at him unnerved him deeply…reminded him just how separate he was from them. How different he was. 

It was as if they already knew there was something unnatural about him when they didn’t even know his name. 

Lord Grantham’s depths for empathy were revealed once more when he pulled the cloth free from the stone and showed the name ‘Archibald' for all to see. The stone proclaimed his death a sacrifice, and it fit well. Thomas took off his hat, as did Bates and Moseley, and the three of them stood alongside Phyllis and Anna while Patmore wept into her handkerchief. She touched the stone, tenderly; Thomas felt a pang of affection pass through him. Daisy and Mr. Mason were beside her, talking amongst themselves, and Daisy kept glancing back at Thomas as Mr. Mason’s brow began to furrow with distaste. 

Thomas looked away, eager to move along if only to avoid having another argument with Mr. Mason. He was still reveling in shame from the last encounter- he didn’t think he could handle having another one with John Bates of all people present. 

“Odd how they call us the conquering heroes now.” Bates spoke up, more to Anna than anyone else, “But back then they called us fools.” 

Fools indeed. How many soldiers had Thomas seen in the trenches, wailing and lamenting their situation while letters from home dwindled lower and lower only to stop. 

Worse when they came, only to be damning. Even now Thomas could recall Edward choking back tears. 

_“Stop,”_ Edward had whispered, unable to handle another word from Jack’s ugly letter. 

If Thomas had known what was to occur, he would have shoved every last letter into a furnace and never let Edward hear Jack’s name again. 

“I’m glad he has a stone.” Thomas murmured, suddenly so very protective of that simple hedge in the graveyard by Downton Hospital; Edward’s family had declined to have his body shipped back to Oxford after his suicide. They were catholic and believed it a cardinal sin. But no one as pure and as sweet as Edward in Thomas’ eyes could ever be capable of a cardinal sin- of any sin at all. Edward simply existed beyond the realm of such concepts.

“Every man deserves a stone.” Bates agreed, and Thomas realized with an ugly pang that Bates thought he was talking about Mrs. Patmore’s nephew. “I knew an Alexander Baker… a fine chap that died next to me. The same blast that took my leg killed him. He deserved a stone.” 

Thomas tried to imagine it, tried to see Bates as a young man with two capable legs in some weird trench covered in muck but determined to make it through. Try as he might, it didn’t stick. He was still too busy envisioning Edward in his hospital bed, with gauze wrapped around his eyes and a nervous jitter in his gate. 

_“Thomas-“_ he’d call out at first in random moments, _“Are you there?”_   
But soon Edward had grown to know that Thomas was always there, and so he’d stopped asking. Instead he’d merely sniff, waiting for the smell of cigarette smoke and Brilliantine. Edward had inhaled deeply, filling his lungs up whenever Thomas was close by- Thomas had watched him relax, every muscle in his body unclenching until he could at last fall asleep in his cot. 

“I knew a-“ Thomas began, unsure why he was even about to tell Bates about Edward save that he thought Bates of all people might understand the devotion between soldiers, but he stopped abruptly as Daisy walked up with a tentative smile in place. 

The atmosphere shifted but only slightly. Phyllis’ smile became more tense, Anna looked unsure and Bates disappointed. None were frowning but none were happy… though that was hardly Daisy’s fault. 

“Thomas…” Daisy approached him with slight trepidation, which Thomas suspected had something to do with the way Mr. Mason was now grumbling to Mrs. Patmore who was still stroking Archie’s stone and wiping her face clean. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were remarking upon it. Carson looked irritated that Archie should even be given a stone. 

“Mr. Mason wants to walk back to the Abbey with us. I was wondering if you might join?” 

Thomas winced, knowing full well any conversation between himself and Mr. Mason would be bound to end in disaster despite Daisy’s good intentions; he was saved the humiliation by Phyllis who cleared her throat to cut across. 

“Actually, Daisy- I was hoping I might have a word with Thomas for the moment. I’ll set him loose in just a bit.” 

Daisy nodded, meek and unable to say no when Phyllis was smiling so endearingly and taking Thomas by the elbow like they were the best of palls. 

To be fair, Phyllis was one of Thomas’ closest friends, but he hardly enjoyed her grabbing his elbow in plain sight. 

“O’course.” Daisy agreed. She turned and left for Mr. Mason, down put but still determined. Mr. Mason looked over his shoulder at Thomas and raised an eyebrow when he saw Phyllis clinging to his elbow. No doubt he thought Thomas courting _Phyllis_ too, god help him- 

“Get off me.” Thomas grumbled irritably, tugging his elbow free, “What am I, your fancy man?” 

Phyllis let go of him at once, her facade complete with Daisy momentarily put off. She sighed, terse as Thomas crossed his arms over his chest to keep her from grabbing his elbow again. 

She bowed her head, hardly meek like Daisy but looking decidedly regretful in that moment. Thomas narrowed his eyes, knowing full well what she might be about to say. No doubt she wanted to lecture him for Daisy kissing him on the cheek earlier but damnit how was he supposed to control Daisy’s behavior? 

“I wanted to apologize.” Phyllis said. Thomas was taken aback; it clearly showed upon his face. It was not common that people apologized to him. It was less common that he even deserved it. “For speaking with Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore but… they were already talking about it when I walked in. Daisy was the one who broke the news to them. Not me. I just… filled in details.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes and shook his head. A typical excuse, “You do so love to fill in the details, Mrs. Baxter.” 

“I only want you to be happy, Thomas.” Phyllis spoke plaintively. Had they been alone, Thomas’ face would have softened. As it was, he kept his stony visage up. It would not do to look human in front of the Bates. He’d already had enough of that as of late, “I don’t think you’re happy. As a matter of fact, I know you’re not.” 

“Really?” Thomas sneered, trying his best for his usual drawl. Phyllis scowled, “Well aren’t you the one.” 

He turned and left. Phyllis followed him with the other three right on her heels. 

When had he subscribed to this pen pall service? Thomas on the verge of telling them all to go hang themselves if it meant he’d get a moment of peace and quiet- Anna and Phyllis included. 

“Shouldn’t you all get back to your psychology class?” Thomas snapped over his shoulder. Phyllis wouldn’t be put off. 

“You can try and hide from me all you want, Thomas. I’ve known you nearly all your life- and I know you to be a kind and true man when you aren’t putting up a front or a fight-“ 

“Freud will be missing you if you linger too long, Ms. Baxter.” Thomas snapped. “Off you go then, pip pip, don’t keep him waiting.” 

“You cad-!” Phyllis snapped right back, jerking her pace so that she briefly ran to get ahead of him and cut him off. Thomas skidded to a halt, gravel shuffling beneath his feet as he sneered at Phyllis. She opened her mouth, ready to say something hot and heavy from the look upon her face, but she was effectively silenced by Bates who caught Thomas by the elbow to veer the conversation so far off course that Thomas could not adequately answer with his usual snap: 

“Who did you know?” Bates asked. “The man you were telling me about before Daisy walked up. Who was he?” 

Phyllis let a long breath out through her nose, nostrils flared; the pair of them huffed and puffed, unable to continue their fight with Bates now effectively in the middle and clearly marking himself as a mediator. 

“It- It doesn’t matter.” Thomas stepped around both Phyllis and Bates, heading back towards the road out of town. He longed for his room, for silence and solitude, “He’s dead.” 

“You don’t mean that.” Anna said, effectively stopping him from going another step further. 

She’d said the same thing when Phyllis had died. In truth, the words could be spoken to him a hundred times a day and still hold truth. He hardly meant what he said at any given point. He supposed Anna knew that. 

Thomas did not make to turn back around, finding the conversation easier to have if his back was to the group. He could almost pretend that he was talking to himself or to Jimmy. 

_“Thomas?”_ he could almost hear Edward on the wind, _“Are you there?”_

“… Edward Courtney.” Thomas said. Odd how the name danced on the air, like it had a life of his own; an entire story behind a story that none of them had ever known. His life outside of Downton suddenly colliding with the life within. “Lieutenant. Junior officer.” 

He took a breath. 

“He killed himself at the hospital.” Thomas wished he could say such things with a conversational air, yet even without facing the others his tone softened inexplicably and became…weak. “He’s the whole reason Downton became a convalescent. Clarkson had to send him away and he wasn’t ready. He was blind, he needed me and Lady Sybil to see. To feel better…” Thomas tilted his head, a few locks slipping from their Brillantine hold as a winter wind whipped through. A few rocks skittered on the road, loose gravel sliding in the hard air. 

“I couldn’t save him.” Thomas said. “But I did try.” 

“You can’t stop someone if they truly want to kill themselves.” Bates said after a moment of silence. “He would have found a way in the end.” 

Thomas didn’t know what to say to that. There was an odd finality in it, a weird slamming of a book, or a gate, that stopped Thomas from saying _‘Yes but-‘_ or _‘If I had just-‘._

He heard the crunch of gravel, felt a light touch at his elbow for the second time. He half expected to find Daisy behind him, but found Phyllis instead, looking regretful once more as she pursed her lips. 

They looked upon one another, a winter wind cutting through their coats. Phyllis’ fingers still danced upon the edge of his elbow, simply feeling the fabric of his thick coat instead of holding him. In a way she reminded Thomas of Margret in those moments, of how Margret used to content herself with picking fuzz off his coat collecting into a small ball that she’d roll between her fingers in boredom. 

“What happened that night?” Phyllis asked. “The night before we left London? Tell me the truth.” 

Thomas looked away, back up the road. Lord Grantham had left now, taking the rest of the family with him. They were being forgotten by their group, but it was no matter. Thomas had wanted to walk back alone anyways. 

He wanted to be alone even now, and wished that the others would disappear. Wished that he could disappear within himself if only to lament in privacy and let the stony facade slip. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Thomas said shortly. 

“It does.” Phyllis murmured; her grip tightened upon his elbow, “You’ve looked dreadful since that night. I’m no fool, I know something happened.” 

No. Phyllis Baxter wasn’t a fool… which boded ill for Thomas should this conversation continue. He wasn’t ready to have it, didn’t want to have it. Didn’t want the Bates to see his face slip or have Moseley be present. This was barely Phyllis’ business; even if it had been, it wasn’t meant for an open gravel road. 

“Is it what happened with Jimmy?” Anna asked. Thomas cursed under his breath, looking away. Phyllis looked back over her shoulder at Anna, eyes widening in surprise. 

“Jimmy?” Phyllis repeated the name. 

“You saw Jimmy the other night, yes?” Anna asked; Thomas did not meet her eye nor answer her question. He supposed his silence was answer enough. 

Though really he wanted to scream. 

“Where did you see Jimmy?” Phyllis asked. Thomas did not answer her. 

“Jimmy Kent?” Moseley piped up, attempting to keep up easy conversation despite the fact that they were slowly deteriorating into the basis for an argument and everyone knew it. “When did we see him?” 

They waited for Thomas to answer; Thomas gave them nothing. Indeed he took several steps with the clear intention of leaving them mid-conversation which might have worked in the past but only served to make them _follow_ him now like queer little ducklings after their mother to a pond. 

_‘Damnit, people!’_ Thomas wanted to shriek, _'Can’t you take a hint?!'_

“Thomas ran into Jimmy on the street outside Grantham House.” Bates explained to the group at large. “He was walking with his band.” 

“Jimmy’s in a band now-“ Moseley sounded quite pleased at the prospect; Thomas wanted to punch him in the face, “That sounds like great fun.” 

_'Yes! Yes it does!'_ Thomas wanted to rail, _'Now leave me bloody well be!'_

“Did you speak with him?” Phyllis asked; Thomas picked up the pace, rounding the corner of the village square and making back for the house. Daisy be damned, he was leaving now with or without her. She could catch up; Mr. Mason would happily keep her company. Right now Thomas wanted to put as much distance between himself and Phyllis Baxter as was humanly possible. Perhaps a continent or an ocean would suffice. 

“Daisy said that Jimmy wanted you to go out for a drink, but you wouldn’t.” Anna piped up when Thomas once again refused to answer. Thomas let out a cursible noise, “That you called James.” 

“You should have gone.” Phyllis berated him, “You would have enjoyed yourself.” 

“Daisy said that you were very upset and left before the conversation was really finished.” 

Thomas cut across the main street, taking a side alley behind several shops to try and avoid the crowd full of men heading toward the Grantham Arms. They were still wary of Thomas, shooting him nasty looks- he didn’t have time to avoid suspicion now. 

“I should imagine that had a bit to do with suppressed feelings-“ 

“Suppressed feelings-“ Thomas sneered, finding the whole thing rather laughable even as he stormed down the way; a hurricane on the move. 

_There are no hurricanes in England,_ Thomas heard Jimmy’s sing-song voice in his head. 

_Yeah? Well watch out love ‘cause here I come._ Thomas clenched his fists in a suppressed rage. 

“What an interesting concept!” Thomas snapped, his barb fitting upon his tongue like a well worn coat to keep out the cold, “Did Freud put you up to this again? You make it sound like I actually give a damn about him.” 

This seemed to anger Phyllis more than Thomas had intended, perhaps because of the fact that she was practically having to chase him down the street just to have a conversation. She wasn’t the only one, Bates had fallen several paces behind at this point, simply unable to keep up with Thomas’ long legged gate while he hobbled along with his cane. 

“Don’t you dare try to deny that you love him, we all know that you do-“ 

A man across the street caught Thomas’ eye, cocking an eyebrow at Thomas with Phyllis’ bizarre statement. Thomas slammed on the breaks, his blood running cold as he mentally calculated every person within earshot who might have taken that statement the wrong way- might hear and grow suspicious. Men were occupied with their children or wives, clapping arms with their comrades in lieu of the memorial unveiling. No one seemed interested in the passing lives of strangers on display- Phyllis and Moseley nearly ran into Thomas, Anna and Bates finally getting a moment to catch up as Thomas whirled on Phyllis with a rage and threw up a hand to stop her lest she carry on. Phyllis realized her slip up with a grimace, looking left and right about the lower street. 

She was a minute too late and a step out of time- had there been a true problem it would have already presented itself by now in the form of an angry mob. With the way that she carried on though Thomas would be lucky not to end up lynched from a high tree by midnight. 

“Keep your voice down, are you trying to get me killed?” Thomas demanded in a hiss. Phyllis pursed her lips, breathing fast through her nose as she peered over Thomas’ shoulder, then back up the way they’d come. Bates fixed his hat a little better upon his head; Moseley clenched his flat cap in his fists, twisting it about heavily knuckled fingers. 

“I don’t love him.” Thomas’ voice was so low, so quiet that it would be a miracle if Phyllis could hear him at all, “You hear me-? So get that notion out of your gormy head. I never loved him-“ 

“Thomas.” 

The berating came from both Anna and Bates, who spoke in synchrony that oozed of a mental linkage. How nice, Thomas imagined, to be so connected to another and not have to fear its implications in the face of society. Meanwhile Thomas was terrified of looking at an eggplant for too long lest he grow misty eyed. 

Their tone and meaning was clear: _We don’t believe you for a minute._   
Thomas spluttered, trying for a barb and finding it far from coming. He still felt uncomfortable talking back to Anna after learning of her rape at the hands of Green… and Bates had a way of looking at him that just made his skin crawl. Like every mask he wore Bates could see straight through with ease. 

“Daisy!” Bates suddenly broke into a warm greeting, and Thomas stiffened as he realized who must be over his shoulder and drawing closer. It was a strange gift from Bates for him to call out Daisy’s name in such a way. It gave Thomas the moment to compose himself, to gather his wits so that he might regain a neutral expression before Daisy could see his face and realize something was wrong. 

Perhaps that was Bates’ intention. 

~*~

Daisy watched from Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore’s side as Thomas spoke with Ms. Baxter and Mr. Bates. Thomas was wary, Daisy could tell; his stoic approach to outward affection was the same for outward dislike- Baxter seemed to be trying to talk him down, or perhaps talk sense into him though on what subject Daisy couldn’t say. Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore moved up the street and Daisy followed, but she kept looking over her shoulder back at Thomas who was now arguing flat out with Baxter, Moseley, Bates and Anna- the entire group were haranguing upon him. 

She suddenly wished she were at his side to defend him. Mr. Mason paused at the corner of Audubon and Greensburrow, eager to keep out of the way as the massive crowd from the memorial unveiling began to peel left and right. Suddenly the road was a flurry of carts and motorcars, horses and engines alike cluttering up the air. Daisy kept her eye upon Thomas, watching how Thomas started up the way towards her with an angry determined look upon his face. Baxter was right behind him, just as miffed at their conversation. Thomas kept trying to avoid her, but she just followed at a faster gate. Poor Mr. Bates was at the back of the group, carrying along as best as he could but still slower than the rest of them. 

“It’ll be nice for you, Daisy, to have the memorial so near.” Mr. Mason noted. Daisy nodded absently, not so much listening to him as she watched Thomas. 

What on earth were they arguing about? Thomas looked pointedly furious. 

“I thought I’d feel sad when I read William’s name, and so I did, but I felt proud too. Very proud.” Mr. Mason noted. 

“Of course.” Daisy agreed, a stab of affection in her heart for William as she thought of how fond he’d been of his father- how close. 

She suddenly found herself wondering about Thomas’ father. Were they close? Had Thomas’ father worried when he’d gone off to war? 

“Daisy may not be a widow forever, but that doesn’t mean she’s any less proud of our William.” Mrs. Patmore murmured. Daisy took her eye off of Thomas for a moment to smile at Mrs. Patmore, glad for the turn of heart. She’d been worried after they’d returned from London, fearful that her accidentally breaking her tea cup would invoke a rift between them. Yet it seemed the shattering ceramic had brought about a reverie to Mrs. Patmore, who instead of being angry was simply saddened and decidingly quiet about her comments regarding Thomas. 

That was just fine with Daisy. She’d rather hear nothing than hear thinly veiled insults. 

“What’s this, Daisy?” Mr. Mason’s voice hinted at a smile; he nudged her a little with his elbow. “Do you have a fancy man?” 

“Yes, Miss Daisy has a taste for a dark horse, so we’ll have to learn to like it.” Mrs. Patmore agreed. Mr. Mason snorted in disbelief, “And at her age, it’s right that she should have a new love, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” Mr. Mason agreed, still chuckling at the idea of Daisy loving a ‘dark horse’.   
Thomas wasn’t a ‘dark horse’, at least not to Daisy, but she and Mrs. Patmore could argue about that later. Mr. Mason was a father to her, and it was important to Daisy that he understand the good side of Thomas. That he like Thomas… she knew the history between them was tense. “Though I should wonder at who?” 

“Oh, well…” Daisy sighed, her eye still upon Thomas. He had stopped now, and was facing Baxter, clearly confronting her about whatever she’d been yelling at his back. “Should you really wonder… or don’t you already know?” 

Mr. Mason frowned. Daisy waited for an answer either way; when she found one far from coming, she spoke again. 

“Should I go get him?” She asked, nodding towards Thomas who was just across the road now as traffic began to thin. His back was still to her, “Would you like to see him?” 

Mr. Mason took off his flat cap and scratched at his gray hair absent minded, pursing his dry lips for a moment as he considered his options only to smile and reposition his hat atop his head. 

“Of course.” Mr. Mason said with the smallest of smiles. Despite its lack of enthusiasm it was a victory all the same for Daisy and she could not help but break out into a beaming grin, “Go get him.” 

Daisy headed off at once, mindful of the street as she dodged through traffic and made for the opposite sidewalk. Mr. Bates saw her approach and called out to her; Daisy picked up the pace, eager to get out of the road and join their merry group. 

~*~

Thomas ran a shaky hand over his face, finding a cold sweat at his temples so that he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket to wipe his fingers on the fabric inside as he turned around to see Daisy coming up the way with a determined smile upon her face. She wouldn’t be put off, Thomas could tell, and Phyllis seemed to recognize it too as she let out the tiniest irritated huff that it seemed only he could hear. 

He was weirdly touched by it, though he couldn’t say why in that moment. 

“Thomas.” Daisy offered him a sweet smile that feel far too syrupy for his liking. What he’d give for a grin, something wry and soft- 

He shook the image of purple from his head. Now wasn’t the time. 

“Will you walk with us now?” Daisy asked, her head tilting a little to the left in hope. 

“Of course.” Thomas agreed at once, his voice catching at first as he coughed and recomposed himself. He stepped away from the group, stomach sliding with discomfort as Daisy at once latched onto his arm with far too much familiarity for his liking. He wished he could enjoy it. Wished such a gesture could bring him comfort instead of squirming embarrassment; instead all he could do was wish for his room at the abbey- wish for a place to hole up and hide away until everyone forgot his name. 

They walked off, Thomas unwilling to even look over his shoulder lest he see Phyllis scowling and know why. They moved at a much slower pace than he’d originally been walking, heading up the road back with Daisy upon his arm. The cool wind chilled his bare skin upon his face and hands- he noticed Daisy leaned into him a little as the breeze picked up. The hem of her dress rippled, a gale of pink amid the dusty brown beneath their feet. 

Mr. Mason was waiting at the corner juncture where one could turn to head up for the abbey. Mrs. Patmore was with him, red eyed but significantly happier in spirits as she smiled at Daisy’s return. Thomas thought the four of them might continue on towards the abbey, but as he approached Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore, the entire congregation slowed to a pause until it finally stopped and the four of them were left to stand amid the hustle and bustle of the corner. Mr. Mason tipped his hat to Thomas- at once he did the same. 

Their prior conversation lay between them like a minefield. Enemies from respective camps, they observed each other from across the battle field and called out in the silence between grenade blasts. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Mason greeted him with a strange stare, one that did not herald dislike so much as wariness as he observed how Daisy clung to Thomas arm. 

“Mr. Mason.” Thomas replied.   
Why hadn’t Daisy let go of his arm? Was it so essential that she hold onto him every second of the day? Particularly when William Mason’s father was looking at him like he was an ugly bug that happened to crawl over his doorstep. 

“How did you like the memorial?” Mr. Mason asked, gesturing back to the unveiled monument in the center of town. Thomas did not spare a glance to it; he’d seen it well enough. 

“A fitting tribute to the fallen.” Thomas said, though he did not mean a word of it. If he were being honest it was the ugliest rock he’d ever seen in his life and he wanted a well placed bomb to blow it straight out of existence for daring to call itself worthy of men like Edward Courtney. 

Nothing could be worthy of men like Edward Courtney. 

“I’m glad for you, Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas said, and now he was honest as he addressed he instead. Patmore gave him a watery smile, “For Archie’s stone.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow.” Patmore seemed truly grateful, which earned her the tiniest smile in return, “You’re very kind. My sister’s going to find it a real comfort.” 

“The families leaving for Brancaster Castle in a few days.” Daisy reminded Mrs. Patmore, her fingers dancing idly upon Thomas’ arm. He wished he could tell her to stop, “Perhaps she might come to visit while we’ve less work to do.” 

“Oh! Less work do you say?” Mrs. Patmore chortled at this; Thomas couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped his own lips. Oh the naivety of Daisy, to imagine they might be free of Carson’s whip just because Lord Grantham was out of the house. If anything, they’d have more. “How about that, Mr. Barrow. Does the under butler get a reprieve in the silence?” 

“What does an under butler do, Mr. Barrow?” Mr. Mason asked, causing Thomas’ grin to falter momentarily. “No one seems to give me a solid answer.” 

“A bit of everything really.” Thomas explained, for he knew no other way of putting it, “I act as a glorified assistant to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, but I’m likewise in charge of the dining hall and the inventory.” 

“With the family gone will you have time off?” 

“It’s true that there will be a slight decrease.” Thomas said, though that would hardly constitute ‘time off’ in his book. “We won’t have to worry about meals and the like, but for me personally I’ll be using the time to re evaluate the inventory of the separate wings… something I’ve been meaning to do since March.” 

This of course was a bare-faced lie. Thomas was going to be hiding in every nook and cranny he could find, lamenting his situation and hiding from the world until he was forced to come out when Carson came looking for him. 

“You’re a busy man.” Mr. Mason said; Thomas was unsure if that was meant to be a compliment or not. 

“We’re all busy, Mr. Mason.” Thomas said, the slightest bit wary. Mr. Mason pursed his lips, eyebrows raising at Thomas’ tone. 

A strange silence fell between them. Thomas did not make to break it. In a war between wills, he would always be the winner. After a lifetime of being churned and spat out like concrete in a mixer, Thomas had had his fair share of older men treating him like a child. Even with Daisy on his arm, he was far from softened. 

It might have gone on for a good while longer if John Bates hadn’t walked up. 

~*~

John watched Thomas go with slight disappointment, knowing full well what Daisy might be aiming for in attempting to get Mr. Mason and Thomas to talk. The pair of them were clustered together across the street, now talking to Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore with a contented air. 

At least, Daisy was content. Thomas looked ready to take a bite out of a steel pipe. 

“This is insanity.” Baxter huffed, despairing in it all as she looked from Thomas across the street to Moseley at her side. Moseley just kept twisting his hat in his hands, close to tearing the worn fabric if he kept up the assault, “Look at him, just chatting up the street! Like nothing’s wrong- oh-!” Baxter pursed her lips, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Steady now, Ms. Baxter.” Moseley soothed. Baxter did not seemed to ‘steady’ in any sense of the term, though she did give Moseley the tiniest of smiles, “I’m sure he’ll come around soon.” 

“Will he?” Baxter huffed, glancing over her shoulder to Thomas again. “I’m not so sure. We’re halfway up the garden path by this point- I don’t see him coming back unless someone forces him to.” 

John had known Thomas for far too long to live under the delusion that ‘forcing’ him to do something was even a remote possibility. Baxter claimed to have known Thomas since childhood, surely she should know better. 

“Forcing him back will do nothing.” John reminded her. Baxter seemed to remember this as he said it, sighing deeply as her shoulders sank in defeat. “He’ll just run off after another pipe dream unless he’s the one to realize it’s wrong.” 

“You’d think he could figure that it’s wrong for himself.” Anna griped at his side; John smiled in spite of himself, taking great comfort in Anna’s touch upon his arm. He looked down upon her, and found her watching him with a scrutinizing eye. He lived for that gaze, for the knowledge that she could observe him so pointedly and know his every thought. It was as if there were a house inside his head, and she was its only occupant. She hid behind the curtains of his eyes, observing the world through his own gaze. 

“I think he wants it to be right.” John offered and Anna nodded in agreement. He smiled, “He may know it doesn’t fit, but he’s going to force it for as long as he can until he can fool himself into thinking it’s right. That’s where the problem lays.” 

“What do we do?” Anna asked. 

Everyone in the house had someone to go to in times of trial and woe. Hughes had Carson, Daisy had Patmore, Moseley and Baxter were practically in one another’s pockets and of course Anna was his eternal confidant. Before Jimmy had left, Thomas had gone to him with his worries late in the night during card games or smoke breaks out in the courtyard. John could remember watching Thomas across the servant’s hall, still distrusting of him, and noting how Thomas had practically leaned into Jimmy as they spoke in hushed whispers near the fireside. At the time, it had irritated him to no end. John had wanted to call out for the pair of them to get over themselves and simply _kiss_ for god’s sake… he’d said nothing, knowing full well Thomas would bite off his head at such a retort. 

Now John would give anything for Jimmy to be back in the house. Had he been near, John would have sought him out at once and demanded Jimmy fix this whole mess. 

John contemplated it all for a moment, his eyes roaming about the street. He noted the Grantham Arms was comfortably full though not bursting at the seams, the normal crowd enjoying themselves as they celebrated the unveiling over an ale. Despite the cold weather, John felt rather thirsty- he could stand for a drink. 

“I’m unsure.” John murmured. 

“I could stand for an ale with all this sorrow.” Moseley said, practically echoing John’s own thoughts. 

“As could I.” John agreed, “Why don’t we all get a pint?” 

“I’m hardly drinking beer.” Anna tittered; John smiled at the thought in spite of himself, “But I’d certainly fancy a cup of tea. Ms. Baxter?” 

Baxter nodded, still quite grumpy over the turn of events. 

“Shall we fetch Mr. Barrow?” Moseley asked, more for Baxter’s benefit than anyone else’s. Once again, Baxter smiled up at him, taking comfort in his kindness. 

“He won’t go.” Baxter said, though she still smiled. 

John looked across the street and saw Thomas and Mr. Mason now on the verge of a fight, a strange tension between them ever so clear in Thomas’ stony expression and Mr. Mason’s narrowed eyes. 

“I think he will.” John said, and his tone was conveyed in such a way that his meaning was clear… Thomas was going out with them for an ale whether he liked it or not. 

John set off, stepping past Baxter and Moseley to cross the street. Anna followed him with comforting ease, hand upon his arm as she kept an eye out for buggies or motorcars. 

“Who was the one talking about forcing?” She tittered in his ear with a smile. 

“Indulge me?” John offered, grinning as Anna leaned into his arm. 

“Always.” 

The pair of them stepped up onto the opposite side of the street, and John immediately made to greet Mr. Mason before another war broke out. Thomas did a double take, John’s voice shocking him as he realized John was near. 

John loved startling Thomas. It was like a hobby he and Carson shared at this point. 

“Thomas-!” John greeted him with a friendly air as if the pair of them were old chums. It was good business, John decided on the spot, to pretend to be friendlier than they actually were when Mr. Mason was watching and Daisy was on Thomas’ arm. Thomas couldn’t pretend otherwise with so many naive eyes upon him. Thomas glared at him none the less, his expression clear: _Back off or god so help me I’ll kill you._

John just smiled, enjoying Thomas’ discomfort immensely, “The rest of us are going for a pint. We were wondering if you might join us. Mr. Mason-“ John tipped his bowler hat to Mr. Mason who tipped his own hat back, “You’re more than welcome to join if you care.” 

“Thank you Mr…?” Mr. Mason paused, his voice trailing off as he attempted to place John’s face with a name. John extended his hand for Mr. Mason to shake as he answered, juggling his cane with Anna’s arm. 

“John Bates.” John declared himself. Mr. Mason smiled at once, shaking his hand vigorously. He had a tight weathered grip, the hand of a father and farmer. 

“That’s right, Mr. Bates!” Mr. Mason seemed much happier all of a sudden, “William mentioned you in his letters- I thought I recognized you from somewhere. I’d be glad to join you.” 

“Shall I join you?” Daisy piped up, suddenly delighted at the prospect of drinking ale with the rest of them. Thomas turned a shade paler (though Thomas was already gray enough to begin with); Mrs. Patmore on the other hand went red. 

“Certainly not!” Patmore balked, utterly offended at the very notion of Daisy going to the Grantham Arms, “Back to the house with you, what’s _wrong_ with you-?!” 

Daisy wouldn’t budge even as Mrs. Patmore tried to guide her away from Thomas’ arm. She clung to him tight, suddenly reminded John distinctly of Denker when she’d been drunk and hanging onto Thomas like a drowning made to a life raft. This time, however, it was less for physical support and more for dire hope as Daisy tightened her grip upon Thomas’ arm and pinned herself to his side. 

“Ivy went to the pub with Jimmy, why can’t I go with Thomas-?” Daisy demanded angrily, cheeks flushing in displeasure at being treated like a wayward child. 

“Ivy also painted her cheeks rouge, and see where that got her?!” Patmore retorted angrily, hands on her hips, “What’s next!? Rolled down stockings to show off your gams? Gin in your bath water?!” 

She tugged Daisy again, and this time Daisy was forced to let go of Thomas though Thomas nearly got drug along with the pair of them as Daisy was yanked from his coat. Mrs. Patmore began to force Daisy up the road back towards the abbey. Daisy simply didn’t want to go, continuing to pull back so that Patmore had to practically drag her half the time. 

“But I want to be an adult!” Daisy cried out. 

“You’ll be an adult when I say you’re an adult! No pub goin’ till you’re married, you hear me?” 

“But Ms. Baxter’s not married an’ she’s goin’!” 

“She’s got Mr. Moseley!” 

“An’ I’ve got Thomas-!” 

“You’ve got a whollupin’ if you give me any more grief on it, now march!” 

“Oh-!” Daisy was irate at this point even as she disappeared around the bend of trees with Mrs. Patmore at her back, “Oh alright! Stop pushin’ me, Mrs. Patmore!” 

John snorted in spite of himself though he was far from alone. Mr. Mason was laughing as well, hand at his bead as he stroked absently with a clear fondness twinkling in his eye. 

Thomas was the only one who looked displeased, still gray in the face as he stood stoically between the two laughing men. 

“Shall we?” John offered with a wave of the hand, once more juggling his cane as Anna kept him steady. The four of them made their way back across the road, no longer having to worry about carts or motorcars with all traffic gone. 

Mr. Mason was still chortling as he stepped up onto the opposite sidewalk where Baxter and Moseley waited with smiles. Baxter seemed more pointedly pleased that Thomas was in their company than anything else. “Mr. Moseley, Ms. Baxter.” 

“Mr. Mason.” the pair of them echoed in greeting; Moseley tipped his head, still devoid of cap as he continued to clutch it in his hands. 

“To be young again-“ Mr. Mason added as he looked over his shoulder back up the street to the spot where both Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had disappeared. The six of them made their way towards the Grantham Arms, taking their time. 

“I feel young!” Moseley objected with good humor. 

“I believe that has something to do with Ms. Baxter.” John teased, earning him a laugh all around as Baxter blushed and Moseley made a weird away of giggling noises that could have passed off for a laugh if they weren’t so choked in nerves. 

“Romance all around at the abbey, it seems.” Mr. Mason commented, approaching the Grantham Arms and mounting the steps to gain entrance ahead of all the rest. Several men from inside called out to him in fond greeting, knowing him well from around the village. 

Thomas had paused upon the stoop, looking very tense indeed. He glanced at Baxter who was still blushing as Moseley followed in after Mr. Mason. John paused on the step with Anna, determined for Thomas to join them instead of skulking off. 

If nothing else he could use the hooked end of his cane to yank Thomas in by the neck like a wayward sheep. 

“I need to go- “He heard Thomas murmur to Baxter, so stiff and paranoid one might imagine he was about to go out onto a battlefield instead of into a pub for an ale. 

“It’s just one drink, Thomas.” Baxter was whispering back, “It won’t hurt.” 

Thomas seemed none too sure. 

“Stay.” John urged, Thomas shot him an ugly look, “We need an ale after today.” 

“I agree!” Moseley poked his neck out of the door, beckoning them all inside and off the stoop, “For Williams’ sake, let’s have an ale.” 

It was a call they could not resist, and the four of them joined Moseley and Mr. Mason inside the Grantham Arms as they made their way over to the back corner of the bar where a secluded spot by the fire offered comfortable retreat for their slightly large group. A fire was going in the hearth, keeping back the biting cold of the winter wind outside where the tiniest of flurries were beckoning the approach of oncoming snow. A sea of tables separated the bar from a line of booths where large clusters of men were sitting together- knees knocking and ales clinking as they drank in merriment. Anna and Baxter were the only two women in the pub besides a maid on the other side of the bar who was cleaning glasses amid the rush and to keep up with the onslaught of customers. The bartender narrowed his eyes at their approach, no doubt exhausted by the prospect of more men to tend to. 

“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Moseley, to drink to Williams’ memory.” Mr. Mason said fondly as he took his seat at the bar. Only two stools were left, and were at once given up for Baxter and Anna to sit so that suddenly John, Moseley, and Thomas were standing in between them like the mixed black and white teeth of a piano. 

“He were a good lad.” Moseley sighed in dismay, leaning heavily upon the bar as he pocket his cap. John took off his bowler, as did Thomas. “I’ve missed him over the years.” 

The bartender passed by and Moseley threw up a hand, “Can I get four ales?” 

“And two teas, please.” Anna added with a smile. The bartender did not smile back, moving off without another word back up the bar. John frowned, instantly disliking the man for not showing Anna the respect she deserved. 

He probably meant no offense, but it still didn’t sit right with John. He caught Anna’s eye, leaning a little upon the bar as he smiled at her. Anna took everything in her stride, mindless of the bartender’s acerbic attitude as she instead contented herself with drumming her fingers upon the sticky bar top in a jazzy beat. 

Ever young at heart; John could not help but feel a flutter of warmth in his breast. 

“He would have liked this today-“ Mr. Mason spoke up, “He always like it when the community came together. He believed in a sense of teamwork.” 

“It went miles downstairs.” John agreed, remembering how William had been so eager to lend the extra hand when John had first arrived, “My first few weeks at Downton were difficult- adjusting to being back from war. I was glad to have William’s help. Though he was a little naive, I have to say.” John added, unable to help himself. Anna shot him a quizzical look. 

“He wasn’t so bad.” She said a tad reproachfully. 

“That were my fault I fear.” Mr. Mason admitted, sounding a little regretful as the bartender returned with a platter bearing three ales and two teas. He set each down, Thomas noticably passed up as the bartender made to leave once again for the other end of the bar. John narrowed his eyes at the blank spot before Thomas on the bar, noting the bartender did not make to fill a fourth ale. 

“Excuse me, we need a fourth.” Mr. Mason smiled pleasantly at the bartender before he could leave out of earshot up the way. The bartender paused mid step, giving Mr. Mason a biting smile though he hardly shared the small warmth with the rest of their crowd. Indeed, when his eyes finally fell upon Thomas they were incredibly ugly and cold. 

And suddenly John realized what was about to occur. 

The bartender leaned in to leer, “I don’t serve animals.” with such malice and contempt that it stopped all conversation among their group clustered at the bar. 

It was the way he said it… so… openly and calm. As if he thought he could get away with it, and suffer nothing. As if the judgment of god was on his side and he were jangling the keys to the gates of heaven. The bartender smiled with smug contempt as Thomas withdrew the tiniest fraction from the bar. He looked down at his semi-gloved hand, clenched it as best he could into a fist, and then turned to go already resigned to his fate. 

John couldn’t stand it- the sight of Thomas being so thoroughly and viciously beaten by mere words from a local bar keeper. It was times like this when John felt truly sorry for Thomas, could understand how Thomas had sunk so low as to attempt conversion therapy and take up with Daisy Mason. 

John shot out a hand to stop Thomas mid-retreat, forcing him to pause as John turned to lean in on the grimy bar top to look the bartender straight in the eye. 

“I must have misheard you.” John said, his voice akin to a growl as he narrowed his eyes at the bartender and clenched his hand upon Thomas’ shoulder painfully tight, “Would you care to try that again?” 

Anna was nervous now, and it sickened John to know he’d brought that fear upon her. She’d abandoned her teacup altogether, slipping off her barstool to stand unconsciously closer next to John, her hands nervous upon his elbow as she caught his eye. She trusted him, wholly and without a care for her own safety; it was not him that she feared but others. It was not him she despaired in, but men like the bartender who threatened their safety. John understood this well enough, understood how his vow to Anna was like iron against the weary flesh of his soul. He would withhold nothing from her, he would spare no expense in his pursuit to keep her safe and happy. 

Baxter had slipped from her own seat as well and was torn between turning to Moseley for support amid the tension or taking up Thomas’ corner and helping him fight it. Either way her teacup was now untouched; Baxter glared at the bartender with fierce dislike, her normally benign composure slipping to reveal an odious woman underneath. 

“Well?” John demanded when the bartender did not make to immediately rectify or explain his comment. 

“Bates, stop.” Thomas muttered out of the corner of his mouth, trying to make for the door a second time only to be stopped again. John couldn’t let him leave, couldn’t let him surrender. By this point, it was a war John was waging, and Thomas was like his lieutenant. He simply couldn’t allow a fellow soldier to abandon his post against the enemy. 

Maybe it was just the newly erected war memorial outside, but John’s mentally had shifted. 

“Albert-!” Mr. Mason was surprised at this turn of events, his ale forgotten as he gaped at the bartender. The bartender gave Mr. Mason a tiny wry smile, looking unimpressed but not unfriendly where _he_ was concerned. “That’s hardly any way to treat a man whose done nothing wrong! What’s gotten into you?” 

“Done nothin’ wrong has he?” Albert sneered, “I don’t think so. I’ve heart of his sort.”

The words were a sort of cue, a verbal shift within the audience of the Grantham Arms that cause several men who’d been hanging back to get out of their seats and make a sordid posy. Thomas looked over his shoulder, his face going gray as he realized the inevitable outcome should he stay but a moment longer. The battle lines were drawing, thickening- John suddenly realized that holding a corner was well and good but Anna and Phyllis were far from soldiers… he would not have Anna become a casualty. 

Not after _Greene._

“Mr. Bates-“ Moseley nodded to the group of men clustering by the door; they were blocking off the exit, a solid wall of intimidating flesh. John gripped his cane on reflex. 

“Thomas-“ John heard Baxter whisper, a tiny fearful wisp of a word. 

“It’s alright Phyllis.” 

But was it? John looked over his shoulder to find Thomas watching the men by the door warily yet without fear. John had to admit he was impressed. Baxter kept looking from Thomas to the men, unsure of what to do or where to go with their only exit blocked off. John was certain there was a back door- a place where goods might be brought in through the alley behind the Grantham Arms- but he’d be damned if he was going out like a rat through a sneak hole. 

“Something on your mind, gentlemen?” John demanded angrily, his courage unfailing in the tension. The men at the door watched John with care, many of their eyes drifting to his cane with a queer smugness that John knew all too well. They thought he was weak because of his cane. They would learn, “Now’s the time. Speak up.” 

The men looked at one another, a few snickering. John distinctly heard the word ‘cripple’ tossed upon the air, though it was muttered and soft.   
His anger spiked, nostrils flaring. 

“If you’re smart, you’ll sit back down.” Moseley said with stern reproach. Bless him, John considered Moseley an ally in even the worst of times but he wasn’t helping their situation. He was treating these men like they were wayward school children (perhaps because of his penchant for teaching), but this was far from a school yard tumble. 

John knew what could happen to men like Thomas when they fell into the wrong crowd. He’d seen flies dance at the mouth of a broken body. 

“Joseph-“ Baxter muttered in Moseley’s ear, the rest of her sentence hidden as she whispered out of ear shot. Moseley looked decidedly tenser when she was finished. 

No doubt she’d warned him off. 

“You think we’re afraid of you lot?” A man near the front of the group by the door spoke up, a burly youth with muscled arms and a strong jaw. A true red-blooded Englishman. “A cripple and two old men?” The man gestured to John, Moseley and Mr. Mason who looked decidedly affronted now. “… And _you.”_ the man added at long last, outright sneering at Thomas. 

Several men sniggered. 

“Oh I think I can manage.” Thomas sneered back, showing remarkable courage as he set his bowler hat ever so cautiously upon the stool Anna had abandoned. John heard two of Thomas’ knuckles pop as he clenched his semi-gloved hand into a fist, scarred fingers slightly unwilling to bend. 

John half expected the man who’d originally spoken to offer another scathing comment at Thomas’ bravery, but the crowd was being parted instead to make room for two men to come to the front. One was stockier and shorter than the other but both were relatively young- perhaps around Thomas’ age. Thomas bristled at their appearance, none too pleased, and John had to wonder if Thomas knew them from around the village. 

“Can you?” The shorter man declared, his voice loud and commanding so that a terrible hush fell upon the divided crowd of the Grantham Arms. 

“Henry!” Mr. Mason spoke up from the back, clearly upset, “What’s gotten into you- stand down lad, this isn’t like you!” 

The shorter lad named Henry narrowed his eyes slightly at Mr. Mason; it seemed Thomas wasn’t the only one who knew this group. John wondered what the connection was. 

“Barrow’s done nothing to you-!” Mr. Mason scoffed, clearly dismayed at all the hostility and tension they were facing at Thomas’ expense. Mr. Mason had been greeted so warmly when entering the Grantham Arms- clearly he’d never had a problem in the village before. No doubt the sudden threat of physical violence had through him through a heavy hoop. 

“It’s more the fact that he exists, Mr. Mason.” Henry sneered, and several men behind him snickered again. Thomas flushed bright red, a band of color appearing upon his high cheek bones and sharp nose as he clenched and unclenched his semi-gloved hand. 

“C’mon _Thomas-“_ Henry leered nastily, and John had to wonder again just how it was that Henry knew Thomas’ name at all, “Care for a second round?” 

Second round? 

“It’s Mr. Barrow to you.” Thomas spat, his old wall of ugly hostility up in a flash to replace the emotional wreck John knew to be beneath. Suddenly every angry barb Thomas had thrown across the servant’s dining table was starting to make sense. “If even that.” 

“It weren’t Mr. Barrow when I was splittin’ your face in two under that bridge-!” a taller youth at Henry’s elbow spoke up. John heard Thomas suck in the tiniest breath- noticed Thomas’ jaw clenching tight. “Where’s your little blond friend? He too scared to show his face in town after he ran away like a coward?” 

A dawning of understanding fell upon Mr. Bates; his hand was suddenly incredibly sweaty upon his cane as his heart picked up its pace in his chest. 

He knew Thomas had been beaten within an inch of his life by a group of thugs at the Thirsk fair, though no one was sure of the details as to who or why. 

It seemed both questions had now been answered. 

Thomas jerked away from the shelter of their group, making a move of incredibly bravery as he stormed through the tables to face Henry and his friend head on. Thomas suddenly looked akin to David and Goliath, taking on the giant of prejudice and bitter societal intolerance as he defended Jimmy’s name. 

Here was the Thomas John knew to be true. Here was the Thomas Daisy would never know. He was the Thomas in love with Jimmy. 

John was glad to see him back. He just wished it were under different circumstances.

“I told him to run that day!” Thomas snarled, “There’s no shame in helping a friend when they’re being cornered by bastards!” 

John slowly set his cane aside at the edge of the bar, a hand coming up to detach Anna from his arm. She was reluctant at first to let go of his coat. 

“Henry! George!” Mr. Mason called out again, now flat out angry, “For god’s sake he served in the war too- he’s a decent man! Why are you acting this way? You can’t have had _that_ much to drink!” 

But no one was listening to him now. He was the line voice of reason, swallowed up in a crowd of anger and scorn. The men at the door were tensing, gearing up for a fight. Thomas was too lost in defending Jimmy, too in love or simply too far gone to care about the stacked odds. 

In that moment John could see Thomas before Inspector Vyner, lying with ease and finesse to the London detective… could see Thomas pinned against the door of the boot room, his eyes full of fear and his eyes clenched tightly around a brown glass bottle. 

John would have no more of it. He let go of Anna’s arm and the bar completely, surprising even himself as he strode out into the sea of tables to come to Thomas’ aid without the help of his cane. He’d walked without support around his cottage, taken the time to do so on the dirt road when he and Anna walked up in the early mornings to arrive for work… but he’d never done so now under such tight circumstances and internally worried he might stumble on a chair leg or a table’s edge. 

One thing was for certain though- should a fight break out John would not be swinging fists with a cane tucked under his armpit. 

“Friend, eh?” Henry was on the verge of shouting, “Is that what he was?” 

“Yes!” Thomas shouted back, his Stockport accent slipping out in his rage, “Thas’ what ‘e was!” 

“You think we haven’t heard your story-?!” 

“You think I give a damn either way?!” Thomas shot back, both fists clenched tight now. 

“I know your sort!” Henry shouted, and the men behind his jeered loudly in ugly agreement that made John’s blood run cold. They were piteously outnumbered, on the verge of being overwhelmed. John didn’t dare turn his head to look back at Anna, knowing the minute he took his eyes off either Henry or George one might charge him. He prayed Anna was safe, prayed she was behind either Moseley or Mr. Mason. 

“We know what you are!” George agreed, speaking up again. Thomas did not flinch, a feat that heavily impressed John. 

“You know _nothin'!”_ Thomas snarled, throwing a hand out wide to cut the air between them with an air of finality on the statement. 

“Go on!” George leered, Thomas face growing more and more colored as his gray eyes widened in a rage, “The way you were carrying about with that filthy little blond chit-“ 

Thomas sucked in the slightest breath, the ticking of a time bomb getting ready to go off. John braced himself, squaring his footing as he sized up both George and Henry- he’d best take George. George was taller and more muscled- clearly a harder fight. Yet Henry looked ready to set Thomas on fire, clearly fueled more by a sense of civic duty that the confidence of arrogant youth. 

_No,_ John decided, _I’ll take Henry. Henry will be out for blood._

“He was a whore for you and you couldn’t get enough of him!” George’s voice was ugly and brassy, cutting above all the rest of the jeering men who were getting out of the way- moving their ale and their chairs to avoid the fight about to break out. 

Thomas, to his credit, could take many things other men could not- could endure under critical conditions and keep a calm mask akin to the servants blank in times when even John’s temper popped and flew. It seemed that Jimmy Kent being called a whore, however, was one of the few things Thomas could not abide. John was therefore unsurprised when Thomas let out an animalistic shout, his hands flying out to grab George swiftly by the collar before punching him full in the mouth. Despite his size and muscle, Thomas’ blow was so severe that George was lifted right off his feet to fall back onto the table behind him, effectively breaking it in two on the way down so that wood flew into the air and table legs scattered across the floor. 

And so it began. 

Henry made a dive for Thomas, giving John the perfect opening to wring his neck. If Thomas was taken from behind, it would be the end of the fight and the beginning of a beating (suddenly Thomas’ desperate state the day of the Thirsk fair was beginning to make a lot more sense). For the first time in since the war, John found himself in an all out fight, an arena where he could champion despite his wounded leg and his encroaching age. In his youth, he’d been able to take out three men with ease by himself. Now, old and shaky, Henry would do just find. John’s knuckles smarted as he repeatedly punched Henry in the mouth, going for the face and neck even as Henry tried to grab Thomas from behind. Grabbing Thomas at that moment, however, would have been akin to struggling with a wet cat for how Thomas writhed and bucked. George was strong and stalwartly, valiantly holding his shitty prejudiced corner even as Thomas slammed his face into the broken table and twisted his arm behind his back. 

More men were getting involved, suddenly Thomas was grabbed from behind by another man who locked his arms and gave George the perfect opening to punch Thomas in the stomach. Thomas gasped in seizing pain, doubling over from the blow-

“Thomas!” John kicked out with his one good leg and effectively took the legs out from underneath the man holding Thomas’ arms. Now freed, Thomas punched George twice in the face with his gloved hand. One sickening crunch later, it was clear Thomas had broken George’s nose- 

John seized, his airway suddenly cut off as a muscled arm shot out from behind and wrapped tightly about his neck. Black spots danced in front of his vision as he gasped for air; he clawed desperately at the arm, his vision going fuzzier by the minute as voices echoed in his brain from days long past- he could see Anna kissing him behind his eyes- 

The sound of Thomas snarling and spitting like a feral cat effectively cut out the voice of his father calling him a lout, and suddenly his airway was cleared as Thomas lunged at his attacker and knocked him flat on his back. Suddenly able to breath, John could not help but grin in triumph as he whipped his head around to observe Thomas upon the floor, punching and kicking against a massive thuggish man with a handlebar mustache. Despite Thomas being a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, he was clearly too much of a fight for the man to handle. 

“Bill, Charlie!” The bartender bellowed from behind the bar, “Get rid of this lot!” 

And suddenly there were new hands upon him. 

John got one good look at a truly massive man who lumbered out from behind the bar from god knows where before he was suddenly picked right off the floor and hauled straight for the door bad leg and all. Thomas faired no better, in fact he got worse, his arms pinned behind him in a bruising grip as another even larger man (if that were at all possible) drug him straight for the door. John was the first out, startling sunlight momentarily blinding him as he was suddenly thrown face first out the door of the Grantham Arms and onto the snowy main road. He landed with all the precision of a skilled athlete upon his bad leg, and howled in pain as a hot seizing shock rippled through his aching flesh. For a minute he simply lay in the road and clutched at his knee, too far in pain to comprehend what was going on around him. 

“John!” He heard Anna cry out. 

Then, he heard Thomas shouting and fighting, and immediately opened his eyes to see what was fighting fearing the worst for both of them.   
Thomas was at best five foot eleven, perhaps on a good day one hundred and fifty pounds (he’d always been on the weedy side), and was being pitted against a man who could clearly tower over even Alfred Nugent with a mass of twenty stone. Regardless of the stacked odds, Thomas had the man who’d thrown John onto his bad leg up against the outer wall of the Grantham Arms hammering punch after punch into his eyes so that they were blossoming with black and blue. 

“Bastard!” Thomas shouted in an emotional rage, “You're not worth the lint in his pockets!” 

Had they been in any other situation, John would have found such a statement endearing and worthy of praise. Now, with two violent and overgrown men attempting to throttle Thomas like a limp rag doll, John could hardly see the sense in his loyalty. Years spent in both war and prison had taught him the wisdom of keeping his head down. Thomas had been to war, and he’d certainly been threatened with prison, but it seemed that neither had made an impact on Thomas when it came to picking his battles. Thomas was jerked off the first man only to be slammed hard against the brick wall by the second. The first man cursed, rubbing viciously at his bruised eyes as he clutched at his belt. Moseley, Baxter, Mr. Mason, and Anna had vacated the Grantham Arms, slipping past the scuffle to help John off the ground as his crippled leg smart and stung. Moseley and Mr. Mason were stuck, neither helpful in a fight but neither eager to see Thomas get throttled. Anna was close to tears, arms around John’s waist as she supported him even as his leg bleated with pain. Baxter was trembling violently as she held John up by the arm, though if it was from the cold or from watching Thomas be beaten, John could not say. His eyes watered with pain, he clenched them closed for a moment. 

Thomas was still trying to fight, still trying to gain the upper hand (in a truly Thomas fashion, with no clear tactic save to scrawl and scrap), but all resistance was shot out the window when the first man finally got his hand on his belt long enough to yank out a knife. He pressed it hard against Thomas’ pale lean throat. The atmosphere changed on the drop of a pin, prejudice and beer brawls suddenly giving way to clear threats and lines crossed. Hatred met violence, ignorance and apathy, intertwining to put Thomas in a truly horrific position. 

“Thomas-!” John wanted to run to him, to aid him in that moment as they’d cared for one another only moments ago inside the Grantham Arms. It was bizarre camaraderie after years of bitter hatred, to fight on the same side as Thomas and recognize his struggles in such an intimate way. He realized in that instant how every ale at a pub for Thomas could turn into a knife fight. How even something as simple as taking a walk with a friend could be a dangerous situation. Such intense paranoia reminded John distinctly of both war and prison and it sickened him to realize that Thomas must surely live his life every moment as if he were at war or in prison. 

No wonder he’d caved into Daisy. The man didn’t have a leg to stand on. 

“No-!” Baxter’s voice cracked as she abandoned John’s arm to run for Thomas instead. She had no clear plan, no way to win in such a struggle. Moseley grabbed her around the waist, so that she suddenly kicked out at the air, her left shoe nearly falling off as she floundered, “Let him go!” 

“Stay back!” Thomas shouted; he could not move without risking his neck (literally) and kept incredibly still as he glared at his attacker with the same snooty pride that had so often irked John to no end. Now, John found it very brave, “Keep her back!” 

Moseley held tight to Baxter with one arm, his other helping Anna to support John. 

Anna held him tight about the ribs, her arms so slim yet strong; John leaned in to breath the perfume at her neck, taking comfort in it at that moment. So often the same smell had adorned his pillow, aiding him through the night when sleep wouldn’t come. When his leg hurt too bad to move, or dreams of the past kept him from envisioning hopes for the future. The felt feather in her hat band tickled in his chin, wisps of her golden hair flitting into his nostrils as he took deep engulfing breathes to numb the pain. 

Baxter whimpered, clutching at Mosley’s arm around her waist. Mr. Mason gaped and floundered, silent in his shock. The five of them were powerless to stop whatever was to happen next. 

The lumbering giant wielding the knife seemed to understand how the presence of a weapon had changed the situation. Jeering from within the bar came to a shuddering halt, people passing by on the streets as they headed home from the memorial stopped in their tracks or turned tail and ran. His companion held Thomas hard against the wall, keeping him from moving lest he try to get away. 

But Thomas wasn’t the type to run, even if he’d been given the chance. 

“We know your sort, queer.” The knife wielder spat in Thomas’ face at this. Thomas did not even flinch, saliva now dripping down his sharp cheekbone which was beginning to purple with a bruise. “And don’t you ever forget it.” 

Thomas said nothing. 

The man yanked back his hold upon Thomas’ neck, the knife coming away to reveal a thin red welt upon Thomas’ pale throat where it had once been. With a sound tug and throw, Thomas was flung hard just like John into the streets where he yelped in horrific pain as if he’d broken a bone and lay in the dirt. 

Thomas was clutching at his upper right thigh, hissing and clenching his teeth tight as his eyes screwed shut with pain. For a minute he simply floundered there before Baxter managed to loosen Moseley’s hold and sought to help him up. 

“Thomas!” She called his name as a mother might her wayward child, but Thomas threw up a hand to stop her descent, his eyes still locked upon the men in the doorway of the Grantham Arms. 

“Go on!” The other man shouted at the five of them, “Get out of here! We don’t serve animals here! Or their sympathizers!” 

Thomas staggered to his feet, bracing his legs wide as if he thought he might buckle and fall. It was only then that John could properly see Thomas’ trouser leg caked in dirt and blood, a large dark spot beginning to form where Thomas had clutched so that his hand was stained crimson and droplets fell into the dirt. 

“You’re the animal!” Baxter shrieked in a rage, pointing a vindictive finger at the men. 

The man who’d pressed a knife to Thomas’ neck stepped forward, Thomas grabbed Baxter with his bloodied hand, pulling her away before she could put herself in any more danger. 

“Don’t!” Thomas spun her about so that he could shove her in the direction of Downton Abbey and the road out of town, “Walk. Go.” 

But this was an impossible feat for both of them to manage, with Thomas bleeding and John unable to move his knee without hearing his disk pop. Mr. Mason was staggered, spluttering in disbelief at the behavior of his comrades. Baxter was close to crying again. Moseley was torn between comforting her and helping Anna to control John’s limping gate. 

They were a gormy lot. 

“Your leg-“ John managed to choke out, his eyes still watering with the pain of his own leg. 

“You’re bleeding!” Mr. Mason was shocked by it, but John was not surprised. Thomas had a wound on his hip, a spot where the abscess had been drained by Dr. Clarkson- it must have ripped open in the fall. 

Thomas looked down at his leg, stumbling a bit as he continued to walk. The sight of blood pouring down his trouser made him scowl as he balled his bloodied hand into an angry fist. 

“Damnit-!” Thomas cursed under his breath. 

“Do you need a doctor?” Moseley asked. 

Thomas clearly had no intentions of a doctor, hobbling away as fast as he could up the road while snow began to fall down. John realized in a weird moment of flashing insight that both their hats had been left in the Grantham Arms. He doubted they would be able to get either back now. 

Phyllis was scrambling off after Thomas, so furious in her inability to hope that she kicked at the road and dirtied the end of her heeled shoe. 

“I wish I could set that pub on fire!” She shouted, though none cared to hear her but their group. 

Her words were a tinder match to Thomas’ gunpowder. He whirled on her, hair loose and sticking up every which way while his leg continued to bleed and his bruises blossomed upon his face and neck. 

“Oh for gods sake, Phyllis!” Thomas shouted. She started, jumping as she clutched at her breast. When she reached out to touch him in a comforting manner Thomas shoved her off, unwilling to be helped even in such a dire moment. “What the hell good would that do, do you want to set the whole town on fire- or how about Carson’s office too- do you realize how many buildings there would be to burn?! The _world_ would be on fire! _The world!”_

Thomas’ words sent an ugly flash of insight through John. A realization of just how dire Thomas’ situation was. 

No where was safe. No where.   
Thomas looked away up the deserted road. It felt like ages go Daisy and Patmore had vanished around the bend, inspiring laughter in their melancholy group. Could the world really house so much humor alongside so much cruelty. 

“Do you see now?” Thomas asked the vacant road, “Do you understand now? God-“ He cursed, shoving Phyllis off for a second time when she attempted to reach out for him again, “Forgot it. Just bloody forget it!” 

And off he went. 

“Thomas!” John shouted after Thomas’ retreating back.   
But he was already gone. 

John attempted to follow, but it was useless. Even as he moved his wounded leg yanked in pain and caused him to nearly buckle. Had it not been for Anna, he would have fallen into the road. 

“Ah, damn!” John cursed, eyes watering in pain as he clutched instinctively at his knee. In that moment he swore he could feel every piece of shrapnel embedded in his leg from so long ago, throbbing against bruised muscle and beaten bone, “Damn, damn, damn!” 

“You’re just as injured as he is, an’ make no mistake!” Mr. Mason urged, a hand upon John’s shoulder to keep him from following after Thomas up the road. Mr. Mason looked over his own shoulder back at the Grantham Arms which was slowly slipping out of sight. “What were that even about?!” 

He looked to John and Moseley for answers. Neither offered insight. 

“I know those men! Henry and George Granger!” Mr. Mason continued on, now truly upset. He raked a hand through his graying hair, eyes wide as he gazed up the road after Thomas’ retreating back. A tiny trail of blood gave away Thomas’ tracks. “They’re farm hands of mine- good lads! They’d never hurt a fly!” 

“Clearly they would.” John spat, hardly meaning to be rude to Mr. Mason though he knew he came off all the same. 

A bitter wind blew through their group, a defeated air suddenly falling about their shoulders. The only thing that contented John now was the smell of Anna’s perfume upon the wind. The knowledge that she was near and supportive of him. A sudden pang of sympathy shot through him as he suddenly realized how Thomas must feel, walking alone on the road and wishing to god someone was there. But no one was waiting for Thomas on the road, and no one was waiting at the Abbey either save for Daisy who would no doubt be horrified if she saw Thomas’ bleeding leg- what story would he tell her? What lie would he give? What would he say to Hughes or Carson? How would he serve at dinner? 

John cursed again, thinking of all the stairs at the Abbey, and Robert waiting for John to help him dress at the end of the day. He’d be in hell by the time he’d reach the top. 

“What if those men come back?” Anna asked fearfully, “What if they go to the abbey?” 

“Don’t worry, love.” John grumbled under his breath, “We’ll just get Baxter to set the place on fire.” 

Anna looked far from comforted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woowee what fun we are having. Thomas just can't catch a damn break and neither can I. I've started a job (that I fucking hate) and it takes up a great deal of my time. That's why this update was so slow and for that I apologize. I will try my hardest to update in a timely manner but be aware I might be slightly slower.


	11. Improper Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night, when she could no longer see him, Daisy dreamed of him. Dreamed of his arms about her and his lips upon her own. She dreamed of Mr. Mason’s farm, full of light and warmth, with the sound of bare feet upon the wooden floor and rain tapping at the window in a gentle summer storm. She dreamed of Thomas dancing with her in the living room, suspenders slackened to hang about his waist and shirt sleeves rolled up to take her in his arms. Daisy dreamed of Thomas kissing her neck, whispering the softest nothings in her ear while a fire crackled low in the hearth and the smell of woodbine filled her nose. 
> 
> “I love you, Daisy.” He’d whisper softly. “I love you beyond all other creatures.” 
> 
> And for the first time in her life, Daisy would know what it felt like to be treasured simply for existing. To have value simply for breathing. To not have to lift a finger in order to be beautiful or wanted.

When Thomas had been laid flat out on his back at the Thirsk fair, he’d holed himself up in his room and refused to come down for a week until the worst of his face had healed up. Even then, his tasks had been menial and light for another five weeks until his fractured ribs had healed (Dr. Clarkson had been adamant that Thomas keep from aggravating his already serious injuries). It was therefore six weeks in total before anyone had an honest to god conversation with Thomas that didn’t involve non committal grunts or hasty exits. Anyone _sans_ Jimmy Kent, who’d suddenly turned from being a childish and cruel co-worker to a devoted friend and kindred spirit where Thomas Barrow was concerned. Even then, with several months distance from the fight and a face fully healed (save for a scar on his right cheek) Thomas had flat out refused to speak on the events of the Thirsk fair. 

The only one who knew anything for certain was Jimmy himself, and he refused to speak on it either. He instead contented himself with growing as close to Thomas as lichen on a weather beaten rock, helping him about the house as he healed and engaging him in deep conversation well past the call for ‘lights out’. This has been the beginning of the ‘Jimmy Kent Affair’ as the upper staff had liked to call it: a constant streaming of activity where Jimmy followed Thomas about like a second shadow and Thomas protected Jimmy from every harmful word or bitter temper that dared to drift his way. So it was that as months passed and turned into years, no one really knew what had occurred that fateful day and in the end no one even cared. Most assumed Thomas had simply made the wrong nasty comment to the wrong nasty person, and had gotten exactly what he had been asking for. 

But now John Bates knew better, and he couldn’t help but kick himself. It was so obvious- so _utterly_ obvious- and he felt like the world’s prized fool as he watched Thomas clean his lordship’s Lee-Enfield shot gun over the top edge of a notepad where he tallied up the sum of its parts. Thomas’ cheek was still purpled but healing fast; as for Thomas’ hip wound, who was to say? John certainly wasn’t about to ask Thomas to drop his trousers… at least not while Thomas held a gun in his hands. 

Of _course_ Thomas hadn’t invoke a fight that day. Of _course_ Jimmy had looked so nervous and pale. After a year of enduring Jimmy’s vicious barbs and taunts, Thomas had protected him from nearly being beaten to death by thugs in an act of devotion and love. Jimmy must have realized Thomas’ intentions in that moment, must have fully understand the man behind Thomas’ acerbic mask and felt compelled to know more. No wonder Jimmy had grown so close to him; Thomas must have captivated his attention after such a heroic act. 

It was all starting to come together, and as far as John was concerned there wasn’t a moment to lose. Every day that passed, Thomas’ situation just became stickier and stickier… and with a great deal of the house leaving for Brancaster Castle in only two days, John was nervous as to what would unfold with no one around to stop it. To be fair Hughes, Patmore, and Carson would all still be in the house… but it was clear they’d lost control of the situation too. Who was to say what would happen next with everyone out and the entire house for Thomas and Daisy to squirrel away in? 

Soft metallic clicking captured John’s attention again. Thomas was breaking apart the shot gun bit by bit with expert hands, clearly familiar with the intimate knowledge of gun care. Both Anna and Baxter were watching with avid fascination, pausing in their lace knitting to gawp at Thomas oiling each pin and screw of the trigger mechanism before looking down the barrel of the gun to check for debris. John momentarily contemplated whether Thomas’ abilities with a gun were directly linked to Thomas’ abilities with clocks. Perhaps it was all the same- tiny parts that needed to be precisely placed and well oiled. John had to admit it was rather fun to watch, but likewise had a feeling Carson would do his nut if he saw Thomas handling a shot gun in the servant’s hall. 

It was unfortunately that precise moment when Carson walked through the door, tea in hand and ready to perch for a pause before going back up and dealing with his lordship. 

“What on earth is going on here?!” Carson demanded in a huff, heavily irritated to find Thomas so invested in gun-care amid the normal stoic peace of the servants hall (just as John had feared). Thomas blanched, his face dropping from intent inspection to slight hurt that John only caught because he knew now to look for it before it was covered up with snide disdain. “Shouldn’t you be in the gun room?” 

Thomas made a noise in the back of his throat, a weird squelched growl that warned of a fight soon to come. 

But of course; Thomas didn’t like it when Carson harassed him in public. It was almost like a father berating one of his children, at this point. 

“Mr. Jackson’s got the under keeper with him. I didn’t want to be in their way.” Thomas grunted, eyes drifting back down to continue his inspection of the barrel. Mr. Carson was the one to make noises now, teacup still in hand and book under his arm as he glared at Thomas from across the table. 

“You’re in our way here!” Mr. Carson snapped. A band of color was growing across Thomas’ cheeks, a hot flush that boded ill for any conversation to follow. 

“It won’t take long, Mr. Carson,” John assured him, determined to help Thomas in any way if he could after that marvelous if quickly forgotten _‘lint in his pockets’_ comment. Thomas would no doubt rather chew broken glass that admit he’d ever said it, but John was ready to carve it on his tombstone if given half the chance. It was his single greatest victory over Thomas Barrow- to win his (begrudging) respect, “and I’m glad of the chance to check it’s all in shape before they go.” 

“I don’t need checking thank you!” Thomas spat, turning on John with a vicious look in his pale blue eyes. John huffed, wishing he would whack Thomas over the head with his note pad. “And I don’t see why I’m not going when you can’t even load for his lordship-“ 

“I think I can manage.” John cut him off with a deciding glare. Thomas opened his mouth, ready to say something particularly foul and damning, but was stopped short by his saving grace, Baxter. 

“Mr. Barrow’s father was a shooting man.” Baxter declared to the room abroad, raising a few murmurs of mild intrigue from Anna and Moseley who were gratefully accepting fresh tea from Daisy. John noted Daisy kept shooting Thomas keen glances across the table- the smiles he gave her back were assuring but oddly… lacking. 

Something wasn’t there. John couldn’t put his finger on what though. 

“Killing sparrows by the gasworks is hardly the same as shooting grouse at Brancaster Castle!” Carson sneered, prudish in his quick lopping of Thomas’ father and uplifting of the nobility. With the divide between servant and master clearly set, Carson turned on his heel and marched right back out of the room, no doubt to find sanctuary in his office where he could read and drink tea in relative peace. 

Thomas grumbled under his breath. John was almost certain he heard the words _‘bastard’_ and _‘prig’_ shuffled about once or twice. John caught Thomas' eye and tried for a small smile, but Thomas just glared right back sending John into another grimace. 

John had to remind himself not to take it personally when Thomas was cross with him. 

“Your father shoot often?” Moseley asked, no doubt trying to keep down an argument while John and Thomas continued to grumble at one another. Thomas gave another noncommittal grunt as he continued on with cleaning, loading a fine cloth with oil from a half-depleted pink bottle that smelt strongly of solvent to continue at the barrel. Thomas checked the barrel again and again, never satisfied with the shine. 

“He was happier with a gun in hand.” Baxter explained, which did not seem to bring Moseley any sense of relief or amusement. Indeed, the look he shot John was one of _‘Should we be worried about that?’_ which gave John paused as he watched Thomas continue to work. 

He’d never given a whit about Thomas’ father before, save when he wished that Thomas’ father had given him a few more whollups with the belt if only to curb his nasty attitude and cruel manner. 

“What did he shoot?” John asked, thinking of his own father and how he’d gone after quail. John had never enjoyed shooting, had been happier to enjoy a game of poker or a wrestling match- but he could see how someone like Thomas would excel in it. The hiding, the careful aim… it was right up Thomas’ alley. 

“Oh, you know the lot…” Thomas sighed as forwent the rag to instead line the barrel of the gun back up with its holster, ready for latching, “Quails, foxes, homosexuals.” 

He cocked the gun with precise hands, loading the air with metallic clicks that pinged one after the other. 

Everyone gathered gave a series of knowing if not disturbed looks. 

John suddenly had a feeling that Thomas had spent a lot more time under his father’s belt than away from it. 

“Were there homosexuals in Stockport?” Daisy asked, as she slid a final cup of tea across the table for Thomas to take. John noted the ginger biscuit on the saucer. 

“Just one.” Thomas declared, and John winced in spite of himself at the casual calm in Thomas’ voice. Like none of it mattered. Like none of it hurt. 

“That must have been a hard life.” Daisy tutted, shaking her head at the injustice of it all. She sat down for a spell, drinking her own cup of tea as she watched Thomas load up each bit and piece of gun cleaning equipment. John hastily tallied up the numbers in his pocket book and found them all checking; everything was in order for his Lordship’s hunt. “Imagine being so outcasted from your own community for something you can’t even control.” 

Thomas gave another round of grumblings, tea cup drained and gun repackaged as he hoisted the entire leather casing over his shoulder to storm off down the hall. His track was easy to plot, as where ever he went he barked at a hall boy to ‘get to the wagonette’ or snarled at a maid to ‘quip gawping’. 

Daisy watched him go with a concerned eye. John bitterly resigned himself to take a seat across from Anna who gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“Did he seem tense to you?” Daisy asked, concerned. 

“I shouldn’t worry about it.” Baxter gave her a smile that Daisy was quick to return, but her careful eye kept drifting to the door as if hoping Thomas would return, “He and Mr. Bates were just squabbling, you know how they get.” 

“Yes, you know how we got.” John grumbled, propping his cane up on the edge of the table as he picked up his cup of tea. “Squabble, squabble, squabble.” 

Anna raised her eyebrows, but said nothing more.   
~*~

The house party was out and gone, bound for Brancaster castle, and good bloody riddance. 

When Thomas had been laid flat out on his back at the Thirsk fair, he’d holed himself up in his room and refused to come down for a week until everyone had found something new to talk about. Thomas had taken no pleasure in the death of Matthew Crawley, remembering full well how Matthew had shared tea with him out of a beat up saucer pan before dropping a pearl of wisdom into his lap and going on his way. 

His words had changed Thomas’ life that night, though he’d never known it in life.   
His words, more than anything else, had inspired Thomas to strike that lighter. 

Unfortunately for Thomas, no one seemed willing to kick the bucket for him now, and so despite the fact that everyone in the house knew something catastrophic had gone down at the Grantham Arms after the memorial unveiling, no one spoke about it directly to his face while his eye healed. Instead they whispered, skirting glances at one another when Thomas was in the room and muttering just below hearing level when Thomas left. 

Thomas’ dreams faired no better than his waking hours. He was hounded by rage, pursue into violent nightmares where he ripped the faces off every man in the Grantham Arms for daring to insult- for daring to assume-. 

_“Where’s your little blond friend? He too scared to show his face in town after he ran away like a coward?”_

_“The way you were carrying about with that filthy little blond chit-“_

_“He was a whore for you and you couldn’t get enough of him!”_

Thomas woke up with his jaw aching from how he clenched in his sleep, red beneath his eyelids and no one to vent his rage at besides his pillow. He bit and clawed at it till he tore a hole in the side and had to stitch it back up. 

_Bastards_ , Thomas wanted to curse. _Bloody bastards-!_

By the time the house party had left for Brancaster Castle, Thomas was decidedly exhausted and utterly grateful for the week or so that he would be able to sequester himself away in an unused wing of the abbey without being bothered. 

Then again, he’d be lucky if he could make it five feet without being jumped by Daisy, who ever since the squall at the Grantham Arms had been desperate to get him on his own. The more others put her off or kept her away, the more she continued to press- she was like a kettle boiling over on the stove. 

As it stood, Daisy had followed Thomas up from the kitchens into the library where he was keeping court with Moseley to watch him throw canvas and tarp over furniture that needed dusting. This was strictly her job, to help with the cleaning, even with the family being away and no one to cook for but the servants. She could just as easily re organized the pantry or done a row of scouring upon the copper pots. Instead she’d marched right up with Thomas, nattering his ear off about how brave he was to clobber thugs who took their beer a little too heavy while Mrs. Patmore followed right behind her and added such delightful comments as _“Bar fights aren't’ for flattering, Daisy!”_ and _“You’d be saying something different if he’d gotten his face beaten in!”_

Thomas was decidedly miffed by the time they got to the library, and more than happy to let Moseley take over the conversation with Daisy while he threw canvas over furniture with hall boys and maids while Patmore looked in mild intrigue. Daisy had decided to lay picture frames flat on their face so that the maids could get on with other work. 

“So, Daisy,” Moseley paused momentarily as he threw another canvas over suede sofas and leather arm chairs, “What are you working at while they’re away?” 

“I haven't decided yet.” Daisy said, her eyes traveling about the room before falling upon Thomas. For a moment they simply stared at one another, the promise of a math book between them, but Thomas was no fool and knew her penchant for algebra was stemming from another need altogether. The notion of what Daisy could be cooking up in her head now that half the house was gone and the other half were occupied with down time made Thomas’ stomach do flip-flips and burst into butterflies. Part of him wanted to spend time alone with Daisy, to further understand what he was beginning to feel for her and find out where the hell it was coming from. Part of him was downright terrified of Daisy and wanted to hide from her until she forgot his name; a ghost in her memory like William Mason. The fact of the matter was that despite the pills, despite Daisy’s lovely kisses and ginger biscuits, despite how he argued to the contrary, Thomas knew that he didn't love Daisy. With the knowledge that it wasn’t love, he was left to wonder what it even was at all. Was she his… friend? His best friend? His sisterly companion? 

_Oh delightful,_ Thomas thought irritably, _Now I’m kissing my sisterly companions. Phyllis better watch out._

Jimmy’s little stroll through the park had undone Thomas, unraveled his mind till it was once again filled with purple and tigers that stalked misty London streets. Till weddings in the woods filled his nighttime ramblings and eggplants teased him mercilessly in the daytimes. The kitchen was becoming something of a minefield whenever Thomas took inventory- an accusatory vegetable could send him into fits of ennui. 

Bloody Jimmy Kent. Even miles away and in a precarious relationship with someone else, Thomas was utterly hooked. 

_“Better to know the devil.”_ O’Brien had once warned him sagely in regards to saucy conduct before Carson and Hughes during his early years at Downton. 

_Bet you weren't thinking of Jimmy when you said it,_ Thomas thought bitterly as he helped two hall boys to cover up more furniture. 

Daisy was still looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Thomas cleared his throat and pulled his thoughts back from tigers in the park. 

“Well, do you want to do something with history, or art, or philosophy-?” Thomas rambled off, listing topics like one might list needs at the shops, deliberately staying clear of math in the hopes that he could shove Daisy off onto Moseley and go hide into his room to further lament the state of his affairs. 

“What are you reading?” Daisy asked, smiling over her shoulder at him periodically as she lay each jewel encrusted photo frame flat upon the bar. 

_I’m not reading, I’m crying over vegetables and hiding from you._ Thomas wished he could say. Instead he fished for a topic, any that he could use to stave Daisy off. 

“Right now a bit of astrology-“ Thomas said, eyeing a book on Galileo a few shelves away as he hid yet another armchair beneath canvas. 

“I think I’d like to tackle that.” Daisy said brightly. She eyed the elaborate book shelves with hope. 

_Of course you would._ A voice nastily similar to O’Brien’s drawled in Thomas’ head.   
Patmore looked just as displeased, rolling her eyes and heaving a sigh as Moseley gave Daisy a sympathetic smile. Thomas looked over his shoulder, up at all the bookshelves that promised Daisy weeks of pleasure should she ever get the chance to read them. 

Well. He had promised her. 

“I bet they have something up top-“ Thomas said, more to himself than anyone else, casting an eye about for a ladder. He was suddenly reminded that it was in the outer hall with the hall boys who were using it to clean a rather precarious chandelier. It wouldn’t do to disturb them from their exhaustive task just for Daisy's sake. Thomas could make do on his own. Grabbing the edge of the bookshelf, Thomas hoisted himself up and began to climb shelf after shelf, inwardly delighting at his mischief as he scaled higher and higher towards the very top where several dusty shelves on Astrology lay waiting for him to claim prize to. He wondered what Carson or Lord Grantham would say if they could see him now, and grinned to himself as he clung tightly to the dusty shelves. 

_“You deviant homosexual!”_ Thomas could hear Carson’s booming voice _“Come down from those bookshelves this instant- you besmirch the very wood on which you walk- you stain the presence of the house with your disgusting presence-!”_

“Astrology's a fine subject-“ Moseley was saying, only to stop short and gawp at Thomas who was now almost to the ceiling. He wasn't the only one; Daisy was practically beaming as she watched Thomas climb. Mrs. Patmore just kept scowling louder and louder, a train engine threatening to steam over if someone didn't sate her soon. “How are you doing that?!” 

“I have my uses.” Thomas replied cheekily, still delighting over Carson’s fury should he be found out. He wondered if he could send the old man into cardiac arrest and claim it an accident. 

“You're like a squirrel up there." Was all Patmore had to say, a perfect sum up for the situation as Thomas finally reached the astrology books and began to pull them out on at a time to stuff them into his inner coat pocket. 

“But then again, part of me wonders if it’s worth it.” Daisy was saying, her tone drifting off as she gazed up at Thomas with wonder (and just a hint of dark desire) “I mean what am I trying to prove.” 

“Oh dear we’re not having another crisis are we?” Patmore sneered, watching Daisy work with idle interest. Daisy just kept glancing back up at Thomas, her neck straining as she watched Thomas fish out books for her interest. 

“No,” She assured Patmore at once, “But the more I think about it the more I realize that I have other things I want to focus on in life.” 

_Oh please don’t be talking about me,_ Thomas winced internally. 

Their company was joined by one more as Mrs. Hughes walked in from the tea parlor, keys clinking upon her hip as she observed them all canvasing the library and shutting the high windows to the outer gardens. She smiled, content, and looked left and right to check their numbers- she didn't even notice Thomas up high on the shelves. 

Thomas rather liked this concept- being out of sight and out of mind. He could spy on everyone and learn their secrets while taking naps all day long. Throw in Jimmy Kent and a tall glass of whiskey and Thomas was in heaven. 

“Mrs. Patmore!” Mrs. Hughes sounded pleasantly surprised, “What are you doing in here?”   
“Oh I came up for a bit of air.” Patmore replied breezily with a small smile, “It’s nice to get your head above ground for five minutes." She cast a look about the library with wonder. 

Thomas momentarily felt a stab of bitterness at the idea that Patmore had to stay in the kitchens all day long never having a moment to relax and read. Mrs. Hughes was another that deserved a break- why must they toil all the day long while the family got to lounge and relax? 

Thomas sighed in spite of himself, stirring up a bit of dust; it caused him to sneeze on reflex, a tiny and pathetic thing as he sniffed and continued to ferry out astrology books for Daisy. 

Mrs. Hughes looked around, confused as to the source of a sneeze near the ceiling. When she finally clapped eyes on Thomas she let out a cry of outrage and shock that would have been quite amusing in its exasperation if it weren’t directed at him. As it was, Thomas suddenly felt very guilty indeed. 

“And what are _you_ doing up _there?!”_ Mrs. Hughes cried out, gesturing with a wide flung hand, “Come down here this instant-!” 

“I’m just fetching a book!” Thomas tried for a defense and found it lacking; Mrs. Hughes was on the verge of breathing fire at his foolishness. 

“Well can't you fetch a ladder for heaven's sake?” She demanded, quite exhausted by him despite it only being eleven in the morning. 

“The hall boys are using it to clean the chandelier!” Thomas clung tightly to the bookshelf, suddenly quite nervous at how high up he was. One slip of the hand and he’d take one hell of a tumble. No wonder Mrs. Hughes was concerned. “I didn’t want to be a bother.” 

“You’ll be a bother when you fall and break your neck.” Mrs. Hughes snapped. 

_No arguing with you there._ Thomas admitted to himself. 

“First guns in the servant’s hall, now this- honestly come down, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes begged. 

Suddenly Thomas was reminded of his mother, haranguing at him to come down from the roof after another argument with his father. 

_“Honestly, come down, Thomas!” She’d begged, fear tinging her voice, “You know he doesn't mean it-!”_

Thomas instantly dismounted the shelves, each step made with care as he finally reached the ground again and pulled four astrology books out from within his coat. 

“I’d rather you be a bother than dead.” Mrs. Hughes urged him- a sudden hand shot out as she brushed some dust off from Thomas’ shoulder. 

 

He didn’t know why such a statement should fill him with affection, but it did. He smiled at Mrs. Hughes, perching the books atop the spine of a covered sofa as he brushed his arms off and checked the back of his tails for any show of white. 

“And what are you doing with those books?” Mrs. Hughes asked, picking up a copy of _The English Mechanic and World of Science_ by Edwin Holmes, which promised interesting highlights for the village of Yorkshire and the Comet 17P. 

“He fetched them for me.” Daisy came to his defense, abandoning her bar that was now being covered by a canvas thanks to Moseley in order to join Hughes and Thomas by the sofa. She picked up another book: _The Astrophysical Journal_ by George Hale and James Edward Keeler. Her smile became tender as she stroked a bit of dust from its aged leather cover, “I’m going to look into astrology." 

“Oh heavens, child.” Hughes sighed tersely as she set her book back down, “I know you like to read but these books are not for you." 

Daisy’s face suddenly became stricken- Thomas stepped in at once, determined not to let Daisy feel isolated in her desire to better herself. If Branson could marry one of the Crawley sisters Daisy could bloody well read a book. 

“Come now, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas urged, “It’s in the name of learning. Surely there can be no greater cause. The families away, they’ll never miss them. And I’ll put them back as soon as she's done- with the ladder-“ Thomas added as Hughe's cast him a withering look full of warning, “Besides when do they ever go all the way up there, even when they're home?” 

Thomas gestured to the top of the shelves where he'd been perching. Hughes weighed the odds, tilting her head back and forth so that several gray hairs shone in her frazzled hair. 

“I’ve never seen his lordship scaling the walls, that’s for certain-“ Hughes had to admit. Thomas grinned in spite of himself, suddenly imagining Lord Grantham perched atop Carson’s mountainous shoulders trying to reach a tricky book. “Just be careful with and don’t bring them into the kitchen.” 

“I’ll put them in my room for safe keeping-“ Daisy agreed, picking up the books at once to cradle them to her chest. Thomas handed her the final two; she took them from him with care so that her fingers strayed over his hand just a little too long- the paths of her skin against his own felt like white hot fire. 

Mrs. Hughes stared at the interaction, her nostril’s flaring as Thomas took his hand back at once and desperately looked at the opposite wall to hide the band of color upon his face. 

“Yes. _Your_ room.” She added, giving Thomas a wary look. Thomas blinked. 

“Do you have any books?” Daisy asked him; Thomas nodded, still not looking at her lest she see the color upon his face and take it the wrong way. 

“Quite a few.” 

"Will you show me?” 

“If you like.” Thomas realized the blunder even as he said it, knowing a great deal of his books were not fit for Daisy’s eyes given their progressive nature. If Carson should stumble upon them... 

Suddenly Thomas' heart was pounding at the onset of a particularly painful memory: 

_“What is this book- WHAT IS THIS BOOK!?”_

_Thomas desperately tried to wrangle the copy back from his father's hands- a one of a kind manuscript never to be repeated twice. It could not be damaged, it could not! Not when it brought him such hope- not when it set his soul ablaze and assured him he was not alone._

_““He would not deceive himself so much. He would not – and this was the test – pretend to care about women when the only sex that attracted him was his own. He loved men and always had loved them. He longed to embrace them and mingle his being with theirs. Now that the man who returned his love had been lost, he admitted this.” His father read the damning passage of the manuscript with fierce loathing and contempt, “Thomas Barrow what the BLOODY HELL is this?!”_

_Hands on his neck. Hands on his face.  
“-YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW-?!”_

“Thomas?” 

Thomas jumped, his heart racing a mile a minute. Suddenly he was imagining Carson in his father's shoes, booming his displeasure across the servant’s hall as he tore up another priceless manuscript up right in front of Thomas' face. 

He winced, no longer looking at Daisy or Hughes. 

“I need to fetch a…” Thomas said, but his voice trailed away as he walked off and he did not even bother finishing the sentence as he passed through the door of the library into the hallway where the hall boys were still working on the chandelier. 

Thomas heart was still pounding as he stumbled off down the hall.   
~*~

Elsie Hughes didn’t need to be about the village- half the time the village came to her and reported their business all the same. Being on good terms with most of the house meant that she generally knew the odds and ends of gossip before it ever collected a big enough trail of steam to reach Charlie’s ears. The only exception to this rule were members of the family like Lady Mary who kept their guns close to their chest, and of course one Thomas Barrow who slept with a knife under his pillow and probably kept a razor in his sock garter. 

As it so was, five other people had been Grantham Arms during the bar fight, so Elsie hadn’t needed to bother with squirreling the truth out of Thomas. Instead the facts had fallen on her doorstep in the form of the Bates, Baxter, and Moseley, all of whom were eager to explain just why Thomas looked like he’d been in a fight with John L. Sullivan before Charlie caught wind and had a conniption.

_“They called Jimmy a whore.”_ Phyllis had lamented, _“They wouldn’t let Thomas be, they were blocking the door and out for blood!”_

Elsie had taken it upon herself to invent a rather fanciful tale of drunken scallawags besmirching the family name and the newly unveiled memorial to turn Charlie's anger at Thomas’ abused complexion on the rightful villains so that by the time Lord Grantham heard tell from John, Thomas and John were both pictures of saints defending the houses honor and the Grantham Arms was officially off limits till apologies were made. 

Not that Elsie had been in the mood for a pint in any sense. 

Now that Elsie knew Thomas was flirting with Daisy under medicated pretenses, she could not help but notice the enormous strain upon not only Thomas but the rest of the house hold. The Bates were at their wits ends, constantly trying to keep an eye on either Thomas or Daisy between their daily activities, but this task was difficult to undertake where Thomas was concerned because one could never place where he’d be at any given moment during the day. At least Daisy was always in the kitchens, and always under the eyes of Beryl Patmore. She couldn’t come to much mischief while Beryl kept court. 

Thomas on the other hand, could come to mischief with both Elsie, Beryl, and Charlie bearing down upon him… and that was where the trouble lay. There was only one thing worse than a sober Thomas, and that was a _medicated_ one. God only knows what were even in those pills he was taking- they could be full of opium. 

At present moment, Elsie watched with care as Thomas and Daisy sat at the end of the servant’s table going over astrology books. Thomas explained at length, going on about constellations that shifted during the seasons and what it all meant for farmers should Daisy which to apply her new knowledge to Mr. Masons’ farm. The entire conversation was going straight over Daisy's head; she had absolutely no interest in astrology and was instead smiling with wonder at the shadows of Thomas’ face in the dwindling firelight. 

Thomas was either unaware of how close she sat to him, or simply ignoring it. For every inch that Daisy pressed to his side, elbow to elbow and thigh to thigh, Thomas sat straight back and stoic with his eyes locked upon the book before him. 

For the first time in Elsie’s life, she could safely say that any mischief to be had between the pair of them would clearly be coming from Daisy, not Thomas.   
What a bizarre twist of circumstances.

Beryl sat beside Elsie, going over a list of coupled inventory they were yet to hand over to Thomas. Both were in agreement he needed a break if only to catch his breath. It was funny how they all lived together like a little family. Each came from separate places, different colored threads that all wove together to keep up a tapestry that painted the image of propriety and order for the nobility to relax against. 

This was the very room John had been arrested room, the same room in which Thomas had finally pushed William Mason one step too far and Sybil Crawley’s death had been announced. How odd that a meal could bring so many different emotions together- 

“I’ve got an idea.” Elsie spoke up suddenly, speaking in hushed tones so that only Beryl could hear her. Beryl gave a noise of discontentment, taking her glasses off the sweating bridge of her nose to have another sip of cold tea. They needed a fresh pot but Elsie wasn’t about to ask Daisy lest she fetch it and then take the liberty of sitting on Thomas’ lap when she returned to the table (heaven forbid). 

“Oh?” 

“It occurs to me that all we’re seeing of those two-“ Elsie nodded her head ever so carefully to Daisy and Thomas, “Is what we catch in snippets or hear from others. We need a way of seeing them up close; we could be able to figure out what’s really going on.” 

“What are you thinking?” Beryl asked, eyes lighting up with hope at Elsie hatching a plan. 

“A dinner.” Elsie offered, for what else could bring everyone together but a meal? “A nice comfortable meal, fancy and full- different from what we serve on the daily.” 

“How would we manage that?” Beryl asked. 

“Let’s all eat together.” Elsie explained, “You, me, Mr. Carson, Thomas, Moseley, and Daisy. We’ll watch and see how they interact, try and steer the conversation to interesting waters- it may be that this ship sinks itself.” 

“That’d be a relief.” Beryl huffed under her breath. “I could make a nice salmon; it's going to go bad with the family away, anyways.” 

“Let’s really enjoy ourselves.” Elsie urged, suddenly smiling at the idea of a lovely dinner. “Lay out a bit like we might for the family. We’ll wash up the pieces, they’ll never know the difference.” 

“Mr. Carson won’t like it.” 

“He’ll like it if I tell him to like it.” Elsie assured Beryl; Beryl snorted underneath her breath, heaving up from her seat to fetch them a fresh pot of tea. 

Down at the other end of the table, Daisy giggled at something funny Thomas said, nudging him gently with her elbow to whisper something back. Thomas flushed, looking out towards the blackened windows where snow was beginning to fall again. 

He shook his head, muttering something soft back, and fetched a cigarette from his inner jacket pocket. 

Daisy took his lighter from him even as he brought it out, and lit his cigarette for him; she kept the lighter, playing with it as her fingers danced over the tarnished metal. 

Thomas flushed, wincing as he looked back out the window and started to smoke. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, in too deep to back out and too far gone to realize he needed to back out at all. 

Elsie narrowed her eyes. 

~*~

Charles rarely took enjoyment of activities outside of the normal, given that his dabbles in the abnormal had proved nearly fatal where he was concerned and still haunted his darkest dreams. Clambering about on stage, singing and dancing away for tuppence while Alice withered away with too little to eat and too little to wear under the bitter British cold. Now in the warmth of his Lordship’s home, Charles considered himself a lucky man to have escaped from such depravity. He was forsworn to the path of goodness and could not be turned away. 

He could, however, shine a blind eye where Elsie was concerned; if she wanted a fancy dinner, she would have a fancy dinner. By god, she would have the whole restaurant… and it wasn’t as if she'd insisted they eat at an upstairs table. 

Charles desperately hid from the fact that, had she asked, he would have agreed. 

Moseley and Barrow pulled out a garden table to prop in the corner of the deserted kitchen, covering it with a simple white table cloth and setting out the placement settings just as if they were serving the family for a spot of tea out on the lawn on a fine summer’s day. Instead they were nestled in the corner of the kitchen during the onsets of winter, much like rabbits would nestle in a den or sparrows to a straw thatch. Patmore had laid out a spread of potted salmon, asparagus tart, kedgeree, and even a desert of Yorkshire parkin. 

Indeed, they were blessed. 

“This is very nice, Mrs. Patmore.” Charles praised as he observed the spread (once again ignoring the voice in the back of his head that cried out _‘The silver! They're using the silver!’_ ) “Quite a treat." 

“Well the cat’s away so we mice might as well play a little.” Beryl offered with just a touch of cheek. As if beckoned by her sass, Elsie swept into the room with a pleasant smile- Charles heart fluttered a touch in his breast. 

Had there ever been a more stunning sight than Elsie Hughes post working-day glow? Charles was unconvinced such a beauty could be compared. Ought to even be tested. Such works as Elsie ought to be admired in the Louvre. 

“Ah, Mrs. Patmore.” Elsie greeted her, smiling at the spread, “Who have you invited tonight?" 

“Just us.” Beryl added as an afterthought, “Mr. Moseley, Mr. Barrow, and Daisy.” 

Charles face fell with each listed name. 

He didn't know what he hated more. The idea of sharing a private meal with Elsie only to be intruded upon by Moseley, the concept that he would have to eat at the same table (willingly) with someone as foul and unnatural as _Barrow_ , or the notion that he would likewise be rubbing elbows with a kitchen maid. 

“Daisy?” He caught Beryl’s eye hoping for clarification. “To wait on us, I assume?” 

Beryl glared at him.

“To wait on us and eat with us, and if that thought's too democratically overpowering you can share what I've made for the housemaids. It is your choice.” She finished icily. Elsie narrowed her eyes as if to say: _‘Really, Charles’._

Ah. Well. There was that, then. 

At that very moment, Daisy entered in a pink dress, looking quite pleased with the course of the night’s events as she carried a decanted bottle of Margaux. Charles once again didn't know whether to wince at the idea of sharing with with the likes of _Barrow_ or lament that he was having to share his wine with anyone at all. 

He really liked that Margaux. 

Charles, Elsie, and Beryl all took their seat at the table, accompanied shortly by Daisy who set the wine out only to sit next to Beryl who cautiously leaned back in her chair to re arrange a hair pin that was keeping Daisy's bun back with a hint of motherly affection. Daisy took no notice of it, her attention suddenly caught entirely by the smell of woodbine smoke entering the kitchen followed swiftly by the sight of the one man Charles detested more than any other. 

Barrow looked utterly exhausted, which made Charles irritable given that as far as he knew Barrow had done nothing the entire day besides direct hall boys about and keep inventory in the western wing of the abbey. Hardly grueling labor. Still Barrow took his seat next to Daisy, who was now beaming as if Barrow was her long-lost brother home from war instead of a barely tolerated co-worker who lived to besmirch his Lordship’s house and tarnish the laws of god. 

Barrow took one look at the Margaux and went decidedly green, pale eyes drifting anywhere but to the wine as if suddenly bound for a nasty turn. 

_His sort have no taste- in lifestyles or wine_ , Charles found himself thinking bitterly, until he remembered that Barrow had likewise _stolen_ twenty-four bottles of wine right from under his nose and frankly should never be allowed to drink again, Margaux or otherwise. 

“Thomas." Beryl greeted him pleasantly, a concept Charles simply couldn't understand, “Doesn’t Daisy look pretty tonight?” 

Barrow smiled, though the expression was pained and hardly one that reflected the sentiment of his words: “Daisy always looks pretty.” 

Daisy made a soft noise in the back of her throat, one of delight and contentment. Charles narrowed his eyes warily. 

“And here’s Mr. Moseley-“ Beryl broke across before Charles could reprimand Barrow for his ridiculous comment. Moseley ambled into the room, grabbing the remaining seat to plop down with a heavy sigh. He too appeared exhausted, which once again surprised Charles given that Moseley had hardly had a heavy day either. Perhaps Barrow had been running him ragged behind Charles back. 

Charles sent Barrow another distrusting look, but found Barrow suddenly occupied with the hair pin nestled in Daisy’s brown locks. In the amber light of the kitchen, Daisy’s hair looked a shade of dark gold- not that it matter to Charles at all- but it had seemed to captivate Barrow’s attention in a most unsuitable manner. 

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” 

“Oh hardly. Everyone dig in.” Beryl decreed, and so the meal began as plates were filled and goblets were poured. Charles noted with a hint of smug satisfaction that Barrow did not accept the glass of Margaux Elsie kindly offered and instead contented himself with water. 

The potted salmon and kedgeree were delicious, just as Charles had known they would be, and his company was quite delightful if he focused his attentions solely on Elsie (which he happily did). He was surprised to find Elsie looking at Barrow more often than not, slight worry creasing her pristine brow as she chewed thoughtfully upon her asparagus tart. Barrow was hardly eating at all, as if too ill to stomach a full plate, and instead brought each bite to his mouth with absolute care. Daisy, too, was taking her time to eat, instead of gorging ahead as youth were ought to do. 

_A proper lady,_ Charles thought fondly, _Even if she is a house maid._

“So how are you liking astrology, Daisy?” Beryl asked. Daisy smiled absently, chewing thoughtfully upon her kedgeree. 

“It's incredible!” Daisy declared with a flush of pride, “To know so many things about the stars. I'll never look at the night sky the same way again.” 

“It's a clear night out, tonight.” Elsie offered, “I bet you could see a few constellations if you were in the fields. Perhaps Thomas could take you.” 

Barrow suddenly went a shade paler- Daisy on the other hand looked downright delighted. 

“I used to watch the stars with my father.” Moseley said, a tad bit of fondness creeping into his voice at the memory. “It’s really quite special during this time of year. 

Charles wondered at his own father in that moment, deciding on the spot that they’d never looked at the stars together and even if they had it had never been a fond thing. Anytime he and his father had been outside in the night, it had always been for fish runs- the ice had numbed Charles’ hands. 

“And far too cold to be wandering in the dark or otherwise-“ Charles grumbled aloud, shuddering a little at the memory of the ice on his hands. 

“Oh I disagree.” Moseley offered with cheer, “I even got a few paces out today working on my cricket hand.” 

Charles looked up, narrowing his eyes at both Barrow and Moseley. Suddenly their exhausted state had a much more clear meaning. They’d been shirking work and playing cricket-! The louts. No doubt Barrow put Moseley up to it, ever one to show off if he could get away with it. 

“You never tire of it, do you?” Elsie smiled around a sip of Margaux. The wine stained her lips just a shade deeper- Charles had to look back down at his plate to keep from letting affection show on his face. 

“There's not much I don't know about cricket.” Moseley boasted with great pride. 

Determined to put Elsie’s lovely red lips from his mind, Charles jumped back into the conversation with a gruff, “Knowing is one thing, playing is another. You ought to work on your hand before his Lordship’s match next fall-“ 

“I'm working on it, Mr. Carson!” Moseley assured him at once, looking quite pained, “I think I’m rather good at it, I just get a little nervous sometimes.” 

“Well so long as Thomas is on the team, we can expect a few good runs at least-“ Elsie offered. Barrow did not smile at the compliment, instead an unnecessarily long sip of water to avoid adding anything to the conversation. 

“I've always wondered, where did you get to be so good at cricket, Thomas?” Beryl asked, curious. 

Barrow said nothing for a moment, distracted by something or the other till he realized people were talking to him. He coughed, clearing his throat: “I grew up playing with other children in the village.” Barrow murmured, “My cousins and I often formed our own games when we had spare time- which wasn’t often-“ he added as a bitter afterthought. 

_Yes you would despise honest work, wouldn’t you._ Charles wanted to growl. Instead he gave Barrow a withering glare. 

“What did you do before you came here?” Elsie asked, suddenly quite intrigued with Barrow’s past. Charles did not care for the turn in conversation in all, knowing full well just what Barrow’s past might include. “School? You’ve said yourself you’re very good at math-“ 

“No I…” Barrow drifted off for a moment, looking down at his plate before continuing on, “I worked in my father’s shop. He made clocks by hand.” 

_And no doubt you drove the man mad with your errant ways,_ Charles thought with an internal sneer. 

“There’s a skill-“ Daisy wondered aloud with clear fondness. “I’ve always admired how you are with clocks.” 

“Well you won’t catch me making such a fine kedgeree.” Barrow offered back with another false-smile. Daisy’s eyes lit up with delight as if he’d declared her Princess of Whales. 

"Speaking of kedgeree,” Beryl added, even as Charles opened his mouth to reprimand Barrow again, “How’s Mr. Mason’s crop turning out for the fall?” 

“Oh it’s quite nice!” Daisy assured her with a firm nod, “He’s had a good year in the field.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” Beryl was soothed as she ate, “Heaven knows that man works hard.” 

“I’m glad you brought Mr. Mason up,” Daisy said to Beryl before turning to Barrow and offering him another sweet smile, “He asked if I might come round again sometime soon. The both of us.” 

Barrow looked distinctly uncomfortable but nodded none the less. 

“Both?” Charles demanded irritably, unable to keep it to himself any longer. He was fond of Mr. Mason, a hard working god fearing man- he wouldn’t wish Barrow on him in any sense. 

Particularly after how cruelly Barrow had treated Mr. Mason’s son. 

“Why would Mr. Barrow need to come with you to the farm?” Charles demanded, unable to keep the slightest venom out of his voice as he said Barrow’s name. Barrow bowed his head at this, going a shade paler again as he reached for his water glass and sipped it slowly. 

_Sip all you like, you’ll have to come up for air eventually._ Charles griped in his own head. 

“I’m sure it's none of our business.” Elsie gave Charles a curious look, eyes flickering with concern if only for a moment as she noted the the anger in Charles' voice. Charles internally berated himself, once again irritated that his displeasure over Barrow’s existence in his Lordship’s house had once again brought Elsie discomfort. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask." Moseley spoke up, “We never got around to it the other day- how was Jimmy in London?” 

A the mention of the name Jimmy, Charles’ head shot up to glare first at Moseley and then at Barrow. After all the monstrosities that had occurred under his Lordship’s roofs at the hands of Kent, Charles would be delighted to never hear the name again. He didn’t know what had disgusted him more, the concept of Barrow kissing Kent without a single lick of consent or Kent stepping so high up out of bounds to sully a member of the nobility in one of his Lordship’s beds. Either way, Charles was distinctly miffed now even as Barrow bowed his head again and slowly set his emptied water glass down. 

Barrow chewed on a small piece of asparagus tart, desperate to keep out of conversation. 

“Thomas?” Elsie spoke his name with care. Barrow winced, setting his fork and knife down with the softest amount of noise. 

“You did see him in London, yes?” Elsie continued on. 

“Yes." Barrow finally replied, though his tone was bitter and his eyes downcast. “Just in passing.” 

“And do tell me, when did you see James Kent in London?” Charles sneered. Barrow just kept going grayer by the second, hands no longer upon the table as they slipped into his lap. Daisy’s smile was vanishing, being replaced by a look of concern that was mimicked by several other faces at the table including Elsie. 

That wouldn’t do. Elsie deserved a proper night; he wouldn't have it spoiled by Barrow or his _fancy men._

“I was on the street with Daisy when we were in London for Lady Rose’s wedding and-“ 

“What were you doing on the street with Daisy?" Charles demanded, affronted. 

“He’s in a band!” Daisy suddenly cried out, and it took Charles a good minute to register that she was _not_ talking about Barrow. 

“Oh! Imagine that.” Beryl smiled at the very notion, something that irritated Charles to no end as Beryl propped her chin upon a plump hand. 

“I bet Jimmy would be a great hand in a band.” Moseley agreed with a smile, “What does he do?” 

Once again all eyes were on Barrow. Barrow tried to take another bite of asparagus tart. 

“Piano.” He said, voice growing tense even its quiet, “And sings.” 

Charles would have no more of it. The utter ridiculousness of it all! First kissing men, then sleeping with the nobility, then singing about in a jazz band- it seemed James Kent lived to irritate Charles to the point of a second cardiac arrest. 

“Larking on like a peacock-" Charles grumbled to his plate as he took another bitter bite of potted salmon, “A fine line of work indeed.” he sneered. 

“Nelly Melba has been honored by the king-“ Elsie offered with care. 

“James Kent is not Nelly Melba!” Charles said, effectively shutting down the matter once and for all as far as he was concerned. “He is a slacker and shirker of honest work who plagued our house with his presence from the very moment he set foot int he door. I don’t know why I hired him.” 

Barrow sat down his fork, eyes dead as they stared straight forward to the opposite wall of the room. They were utterly blank, devoid of any emotion at all good or bad. 

Charles knew the look well. The ‘servant’s blank’. It infuriated him when he knew what it was covering up. A ridiculous longing, a pining that no man ought to have in his right mind. 

Barrow ought to be taken away by the men in white coats for how he longed for James Kent. It made Charles sick to his stomach. 

“Well that's a little harsh-“ Beryl grumbled over her kedgeree, “Jimmy was always a bonny face in the house-“ 

“A little too bonny.” Charles snapped, as if Beryl needed any reminding of what Kent’s ‘bonny’ face had caused to occur, “Look at all the trouble it caused. I’d sooner chew broken glass than give him a compliment to his character.” 

It certainly had given him cause to drink a heavy dosage of sherry- writing Kent a reference on the eve of his departure. He'd only done it at his Lordship's insistence, and even then… very begrudgingly. 

A strange silence fell over the table. Barrow was still staring at the opposite wall, hands in his lap and eyes dead as if he were serving the meal and not indulging in it. At his side, Daisy looked downright concerned now. Both Elsie and Beryl looked decidedly uncomfortable. 

Once again, Barrow’s _extra curricular activities_ had ruined a meal. 

“Are you alright, Thomas?” Elsie spoke up with utmost care. 

“Excuse me.” Barrow said, rising up with all the grace and dignity of a well seasoned servant. He took his plate with him, crossing the room to deposit it in the waiting wash bin. “I need to finish checking the inventory." 

“Surely you can do that later?” Elsie urged, craning her neck to look behind her as Barrow made to exit the kitchen.

Barrow didn’t even bother with a finished excuse, his ugly presence finally vacant only to cause an unnatural hush upon the air as Daisy’s face turned from serious to sour. She jerked out of her own chair, pushing it in abruptly as she took her own plate over to the sink She wasn't even finished with her meal. 

“Where are you going?” Beryl demanded in a huff. 

“To talk to Thomas.” Daisy snapped, as if this was the most natural response in all the world- for a kitchen maid to consult an under butler. 

Suddenly their table was two seats empty, and both Elsie and Beryl were glaring at Charles as if he’d caused it all. 

It was hardly Charles’ fault that Barrow was besotted with a prancing peacock! He harrumphed around a mouthful of Margaux, determined not to let Barrow ruin the rest of his meal. When he was sharing it so intimately with Elsie at his side. 

“What?" Charles grumbled as he set his wine goblet down. “It wasn’t me that made him leave.” 

“It’s always you.” Elsie warned him with care, taking the bottle of rapidly draining Margaux and filling his glass up again. His heart fluttered as Elsie smiled at him. It was a tired, exhaustive thing… but it was true, and it was his.   
And he treasured it. 

"Well forgive me if I’m the line in the sand.” Charles murmured with the smallest smile. 

“Don’t I always?” Elsie smiled. Charles smiled back, in spite of himself. 

~*~ 

He didn’t have the energy to climb the steps to the roof, so instead he went for the courtyard and crashed onto the table with heavy irritation. A slight snow crunched underfoot, too light to be slick but too much to ignore. He seethed as he he paced, wishing he could kick over a chair, or set a tree on fire, or steal twenty four more bottles of wine just to piss Carson off. 

Thomas couldn’t stand it. The arrogance. The cruelty of it all. 

_"He is a slacker and shirker of honest work who plagued our house with his presence from the moment he set foot in the door."_

_No, no, no!_ Thomas wanted to shout and rave. 

Jimmy had not been a slacker or a shirker; Jimmy had done his job and done it damn well- certainly better than Alfred who’d fumbled every platter he'd ever been passed and bumped his head on doorways when he passed through them. Jimmy had been the very image of grace and showmanship, delighting every guest that came to the house with the casual flick of his elegant wrist; a twinkle in his eye even as he kept the servant’s blank. 

But Carson couldn’t see that, would never be able to see that, because Carson hated Jimmy. 

_“I’d sooner chew broken glass than give him a compliment to his character.”_

_Well I’d sooner chew broken glass than give you one inch of satisfaction on the subject!_ Thomas wanted to rage. Instead he just fumbled bitterly with his packet of Woodbines and jerked one out with much more force than necessary. 

He lit it up, striking the wheel of the lighter with such force that it sparked hard and burned his thumb. He cared nothing for the pain that shocked his finger, drawing deep from the woodbine to burn his mouth and throat. 

He expelled a long plume of smoke, mindless of the sound of the backdoor opening and closing. He rolled his cigarette in his fingers, coming up for a second deep drag as he felt nimble fingers dance upon his shoulder

“Boo.” 

Thomas looked over his shoulder, knowing already full well who he’d find there, and was not disappointed when he saw Daisy smiling at him as she leaned against the edge of the courtyard table. The moon was blocked by clouds, it was once again a starless night, and once again the air of oppression hung heavy over Thomas’ shoulders making him slump without meaning to. The only difference between _that_ night and now was a lack of Jimmy and an addition of Daisy. The same horrid situation… the same sinking feeling in his stomach that everything was about to slip out of his grasp if he didn’t do something and quick. 

He liked Daisy, but he loved Jimmy… and soon all the world would know. 

“You caught me.” Thomas tried for smile but it was forced at best. His voice was hoarse, strained from suppressed emotions that threatened to bubble over from within. He knew nothing save the pain within him. Cared for nothing save the color purple he could only chase in his dreams. 

Daisy’s smile was slipping; Thomas had no strength to put it back up for her. The pair of them frowned at one another till Thomas could bear it no more and looked away; he sniffed, staring out across the courtyard and recalling how Jimmy had held onto his hand so tightly before being forced to part. 

Like he knew what was going to occur.   
Like he didn’t want to let Thomas go. 

Thomas felt his chin begin to quiver, and instantly rubbed at the spot with a feverish hand, desperate to hold it together. 

Daisy came around the table with slow, careful steps, and perched herself on the bench next to Thomas to sit directly pressed against his side. They fit together in weird harmony, two pieces from separate puzzles that shouldn’t have matched unless they were forced- squished- Thomas shifted a little, his hand spreading out on the table behind Daisy so that he was almost holding her about the shoulders. 

If he was a different man he would have kissed her in that moment. 

“Why does Mr. Carson have to be so mean about Jimmy?” Daisy spoke up, and Thomas’ breath hitched at the mention of the name. Daisy heard it, and leaned a little into Thomas’ profile so that her head suddenly rested upon the edge of his collar bone, “He had a reckless streak but we all do deep down… and I never thought he was a shirker. C’ept for the time with that jam jar.” 

Thomas laughed aloud, unable to help himself as he recalled how Jimmy had strutted and preened over the ability to open a jar of jam only to fall onto the floor and nearly break the jar over his face. 

He was the only person in the world Thomas would willingly be a footman for. 

“Mmm.” Thomas kept on chortling at the memory,a smile stretching his lips as he took another drag of his Woodbine. “Carson preferred Alfred. Alfred and Jimmy were always fighting over Ivy.” 

Daisy sighed at this, no doubt still burdened by the memories of that sordid affair. Thomas could sympathize. He still had nightmares about ‘the incident’. 

“Carson was Alfred’s mentor.” Thomas said, thinking back to how he’d found Carson helping Alfred memorize the table settings in private, “His eye in the sky… and Jimmy just became a thorn in his side over time.” 

Because Jimmy didn’t worship the family or care for the order of the aristocracy.   
Because Jimmy had a zest for life, and wanted to live it well.   
Because Jimmy was like Thomas.   
Save for one small detail. 

Thomas bowed his head, brow furrowing as an incredible heaviness surrounded him.   
Daisy’s hands were suddenly upon his face. Thomas allowed her to lift his chin, and found her looking upon him with reverent adoration that he was wholly underserving of. 

“He were never a thorn in my side.” Daisy whispered. Smoke spilling from his lips curled around her slim fingers. 

IfThomas had had a week, he couldn’t list all the reasons why that phrase touched him so deeply. He gaped at Daisy, in awe of her kindness and understanding in the face of something she knew nothing about.

He craved that kindness. He craved the comfort it gave him. 

“Thomas, what did you mean back in London…?” Daisy asked, “About there being things I don’t know about you?” 

He could tell her.   
He could open his mouth in that very moment and tell her everything.   
But then the kindness would be gone and the comfort along with it. 

“… Nothin’.” Thomas whispered, though Daisy looked far from convinced, “I were tired and talkin’ nonsense.” 

“You were so upset when Jimmy appeared.” Daisy murmured, her head tilting as she spoke, “I thought you’d be happy to be see him.” 

Thomas closed his eyes momentarily, willing himself not to weep like a beaten child before Daisy. Not to tell her everything. Not to break nor bend against the pressures of his own mind which were confining him and restricting him- making it almost impossible to breath. 

When he opened his eyes again, he found that Daisy was still staring at him. The woodbine was still burning away in his fingers. Her hair glimmered in the light from the house, amber lamps making the brown strands they touched suddenly look gold. 

Gold like Jimmy. 

Thomas reached out with his empty hand, touching the guilty strands, feeling how soft they were beneath his fingers. Far from wavy, far from short and thick like the ones he so craved.   
But gold.   
Gold. 

“You have the most beautiful hair.” Thomas whispered. Daisy flushed as Thomas’ fingers danced through her locks. 

“And me warmth shines out my eyes?” Daisy offered, the tiniest bit coy though she was far from flirtatious. Thomas nodded absently, eyes still locked on the gold in her hair. 

Daisy looked down, a sudden tension in her posture at the lack of a verbal response from Thomas. Thomas’ hand slipped from her hair, coming to rest on the table beside her as she poised her hands in her lap and locked her blistered fingers together. She pursed her lips, just as much puzzled as she morose. 

Thomas waited in anxious dismay, wondering what he’d said or done wrong as Daisy sniffed and looked back up at him. 

Her eyes were wide and imploring. _“Tell me the truth”_ they seemed to beg. 

“… What are we?” Daisy asked him. Thomas said nothing for the moment, a thousand answers dancing through his brain in pinwheel formation as Daisy continued to stare at him like he were her earth and sky, “Are we…? Are we courting?” She paused, flushing. 

Thomas continued to wait, sensing she was far from through. 

“It’s just… a cousin of mine wrote and I didn’t know what to say back. What was the truth. I… I know how I… feel about you. But I don’t know how you feel about me?” She finally drifted off into quiet, her nerves spilling over as her heeled foot jiggled slightly against the cobblestone beneath their feet. she chewed on her lip, making it flush with color. 

_Now’s the time-_ a voice whispered desperately in his brain. _If you want happiness, if you want anything resembling normalcy, you better seize it now. Lie and make it good. Lie and make her happy. Lie for the gold in her hair._

Thomas swallowed down his self-loathing, letting a small smile play upon his lips as he reached up to brush the gold in Daisy’s hair again. 

_I’ll talk to the gold in your hair._ he thought. _Then it won’t be such a lie._

“You must think me very cruel.” Thomas said, his eyes drifting up to the sky; starless and black- how many ugly empty nights would he face alone if he lacked the resolve to do what must be done? 

To lie, one last time. 

“To leave you in the dark on my feelings- but I’m not the talkative type and I’ve been working it out in my own head too.” Thomas paused, eyes still on the blackness above him. 

He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t want to be in the dark anymore.   
Not when everyone else was in the light. 

She was waiting with baited breath, her lips quivering with every tiny breath she drew. As if she was afraid to break his silence lest she stop the words about drop from his mouth. 

“Me courting you… yes.” Thomas mumbled, his sentence far from eloquent in his nervous jitter- god how he _loathed_ lying to Daisy, “And how could I resist when you’re so beautiful and kind?” 

Daisy flushed, looking away in spite of herself. She shivered, perhaps from the chill of the air around them. Thomas reached out and took her in hand, rubbing her arm with his semi-gloved hand to keep away the cold. 

“Forgive me I should have made my intentions clearer before now.” Thomas mumbled, his breath coming out as a mist in the thin cold air. Daisy shook her head, her face pillowed into his neck and shoulder. Her hands were creeping about him, holding him tight like the ensnaring vines of a wisteria plant. 

“No…” She whispered into his neck, her breath warming his skin as she spoke. He’d never heard her voice sound so soft. So loving. “You were busy so was I…” 

“No excuse.” Thomas whispered. Daisy pressed her lips into his neck; the skin beneath her touch burned like a brand. There was a sudden change in her affection, a weird flip of the switch that turned her caresses from tentative and shy to politely passionate (if such thing were possible). Thomas had never been held in such a way, not even by Phillip, and it jarred him to realize that he was capable of receiving it. Damned and damaged he may be, with broken and burnt arms attached to a hand with a bullet wound and a heart made of ice, but alone he was not. 

_Can you see me in the dark?_ he wanted to ask. _Can you hear me in the void?_

He doubted either would warrant a positive response, but oh how he wished. How he wished all this were easier. That courting Daisy could come to him as light and naturally as the idea of courting Jimmy. 

“Do you truly like me?" Daisy whispered; Thomas shuddered at the feeling of her breath upon his neck, moistening the skin it touched. 

“… What do you think Daisy." Thomas whispered back, neither confirming nor denying. 

She looked up, found his face, and held his gaze with unfettered intensity that hardly matched her usually meek composure. Eyes wide, she took in deep hungry breathes, each more steep than the last as she sat up a little straighter in his arms and held him tight about the neck. 

“Kiss me please.” She breathed, her voice toneless- a simple gust of air shaped into words as she wetted her lips and pressed her forehead against his own; their noses collided, his sharp and long against her snub one, “Please, I can’t stand it.” 

And so he did. 

She was not Jimmy, she could never be Jimmy, but she was his friend and ally in the dark. A light to combat the cruelty of the world that oppressed and repressed him till there was nothing good left- till there was only a spiteful shell. She cracked the shell, kept him up and at bay, offered a world where he would not be chucked out of bars onto wounded hips or denied references for longing and hoping. She promised him redemption and requiem. She promised him period. She whispered _‘salvation’_ in his ear, and didn’t even know it as such, and for that Thomas loved her. 

She was not Jimmy, she could never be Jimmy, but in that moment Thomas loved her.   
As much as he could. 

She tilted in his hold, as if the world had rocked her up and knocked her off her axis when Thomas wrapped his arms around her. He held her fast, unwilling to let her go or drop- unwilling to detach from the only solution he’d ever been given out of the madhouse that was his life. Each breath was sucked from his body, each heartbeat in his ears pounding faster and harder until he had to let her go, had to detach his lips from her own if only to suck in a breath, and he found her panting to. Found her trembling as she clasped her arms about his neck and shuddered into the crook of his shoulder. 

He held her tight by the waist, cupping the back of her head as he pressed her into his body, anything to keep her face away from his own so that she did not see him broken. Anything to avoid the question of _‘what’s wrong’_ and the answer that would have to follow. 

_You’re not Jimmy._ Thomas wanted to bleat, _I’m kissin’ you, and you’re not Jimmy._   
And for the first time in his life, Thomas felt foul. 

Entwined in his arms, Daisy let out the softest sigh of relief and satisfaction.   
It was like a knife in his gut. 

 

~*~

It was queer how the world changed when you were in love. 

Just like before with Alfred, suddenly there was a pip again in Daisy’s step and a tune to whistle through the working hours while Mrs. Patmore bade her to give every copper pot a good scouring while the family was away. Humming _The Blackest Crow_ as she polished, Daisy kept glancing up over the massive pot in her grip to watch Thomas keep time with Mrs. Patmore. Every so often he’d look her way and smile- a soft sweet thing that she treasured and adored. 

When she’d been in love with Alfred, she'd lamented every day. At times he’d brought her such joy and hope- but her dreams were crushed every time he turned to Ivy Stuart for affection and left her pining. 

Not Thomas. Never Thomas. 

Alfred had been vocal with his affections, doting on Ivy and declaring her the loveliest thing in the land; even when he’d turned to Daisy in the end he’d always spoken his vows. Thomas was the exact opposite, instead refraining from words to show his affection in gestures and sentiments that both made Daisy feel sticky with warmth and light enough to float on a breeze. Thomas was such an incredibly private person, a quiet soul that detested being drug into social situations (often with acerbic and bullying results). When left on his own, when left to set the pace and make himself comfortable, Thomas was a completely different animal. One that Daisy delighted in seeing and kept around as long as possible if only to know him better. Thomas was like honey, and she a bee. There had been a time when they’d lived side by side ignorant to the others existence. Now Daisy simply had to follow him, had to know where he went and what he did. Had to wonder at why he was always so terribly sad. Had to wish that she could kiss away every frown that graced his lovely lips. 

She found herself wishing she could love him endlessly, simply sweep him up in her arms every time Carson yelled at him or Mr. Bates angered him. 

At night, when she could no longer see him, Daisy dreamed of him. Dreamed of his arms about her and his lips upon her own. She dreamed of Mr. Mason’s farm, full of light and warmth, with the sound of bare feet upon the wooden floor and rain tapping at the window in a gentle summer storm. She dreamed of Thomas dancing with her in the living room, suspenders slackened to hang about his waist and shirt sleeves rolled up to take her in his arms. Daisy dreamed of Thomas kissing her neck, whispering the softest nothings in her ear while a fire crackled low in the hearth and the smell of woodbine filled her nose. 

_“I love you, Daisy.”_ He’d whisper softly. _“I love you beyond all other creatures.”_

And for the first time in her life, Daisy would know what it felt like to be treasured simply for existing. To have value simply for breathing. To not have to lift a finger in order to be beautiful or wanted. 

Daisy's smile was turning dreamy; she had to curb herself with a little cough as she continued to polish with vigorous buffing motions. Thomas caught her eye across the kitchen island. Daisy smiled hesitantly, her truest emotions peaking through at the corner of her mouth. 

Thomas winked at her, a soft simple thing. Daisy wanted to scream. 

“Naturally the perishables will be tossed by the time the family returns, but what about the canned goods. Is there anything you’re down on that you know of?" Thomas asked, tapping against clipboard with a beaten up pen. 

Daisy suddenly wished she could buy him a pen all his own- a bright shiny thing that would reflect every inch of her love for him. 

Mrs. Patmore sighed as she cast an abject glance into the depths of the pantry, freshly re organized by Daisy’s careful hands- everything was easier to see and take tally of when it was in order. 

“I could stand for more flour and baking soda- I always could you know that.” She added with a soft wave of the hand. Thomas nodded to himself, jotting it down upon his notes. 

“I’ll be happy to make a run." He assured her, “It’ll be good to have the kitchen in full stock when they return so close to Christmas. Are there any special dishes you want to make that I should order in advance for?” 

“Let me think on it.” Mrs. Patmore said, “I have a recipe book around here somewhere-“ and with that she began to search for it amid the valley of polished pots and pans. Daisy set her pot down upon the counter even as Mrs. Patmore grumbled and cursed; she reached up high, determined to fetch another pot down from above the stop range. She struggled, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the pot long enough to get a good grip. Indeed she only managed to scoot it an inch or so backwards, which irritated her to no end. 

“Oh, where’s the ladder?” Daisy looked about- her gaze momentarily taken up by Thomas writing down upon his clipboard. His ebony hair glimmered in the daylight, Brilliantine giving it a heavenly sheen; his skin was practically ivory when set against it. Set against such a stark colors, the red of his lips and blue of his eyes were sharpened… like the finest colors of any artist’s palette. Men like Thomas were simply few and far between. They were made for admiring. 

She’d never seen a more handsome man in all her life. She couldn’t stand it; she looked away with a blush, her heart hammering in her chest. 

"The hall boys have it, they're fixing the lamps upstairs-“ Mrs. Patmore informed her; Daisy huffed in spite of herself. Mrs. Patmore gave up searching for the cook book momentarily, coming around the island to try and reach up for the pot as well. Together the pair of them stood on tip toe, desperately scrambling. It was no good. If Daisy was short, Mrs. Patmore was shorter. 

“Blimey we’re a right pair of stumps aren’t we?” Mrs. Patmore declared; Daisy laughed. 

“Can I help?” 

Daisy looked about, unable to keep her grin to herself when she found Thomas standing right behind her. He looked up from the pot out of reach to Daisy dancing on tip toe, chuckling as she shook her head coyly so that a ringlet of brown hair fell down out of her bun. Mrs. Patmore had already given up, instead grabbing a few of the polished pans to re organize them on their hooks against the wall so as to clear space upon the counter. 

“No thank you!” Daisy chirped with delight, "I can get it me self!” 

Naturally, it was a lie. Daisy didn’t mind telling it; she knew Thomas would get the hint. 

“Daisy.” Thomas murmured with a small smile, “Let me help." 

“… Oh alright.” Daisy dropped her arms, still keeping upon her tip toe. “Give me a boost.” 

It was daring, a clear challenge to see if Thomas’ adventurous love would take her up even with Mrs. Patmore standing in plain sight. Thomas looked at Daisy, mildly impressed at her bravery, only to bend a little at the knees with a smirk. 

“As you wish.” Thomas said, and without another word he grabbed Daisy about the waist in an iron grip to lift her up high so that suddenly she could grab the pot. She took it with both hands, her heart pounding in a feverish delight at the vice like grip around her bodice as Thomas gently sat her back down upon her feet. Daisy felt like dancing, felt like spinning about the room for all her glee while Mrs. Patmore practically keeled over in shock. As it was, she dropped the pot in her hands so that Thomas caught it with a free hand to hold it back up for her to take. Mrs. Patmore gaped at him, mouth open and useless like a caught fish gasping or one last burst of water. 

“Thank you Thomas.” Daisy said sweetly, beaming from ear to ear as Thomas gave her tiniest bob of the head. 

Really, they ought to resurrect statues to this man. To heck and spit with the war memorial in the village. They needed a Thomas Barrow memorial. If they started passing around a donation canteen Daisy would sink every penny she had into it. 

“G-Go up and get that ladder Thomas!” Mrs. Patmore barked, finally finding her tongue if only to scold Thomas. Thomas winced, the heat of her voice far too loud in his ear. “For god’s sake what’s the matter with you.” 

He scowled, turning away to head for the door. 

“Don’t be mean to him!” Daisy demanded of Mrs. Patmore, “He were only helping me out- maybe I like getting a bit of attention every now and then, did that ever cross your mind-?" 

“Then only attention you’ll be getting is attention from me if you don’t watch out!” Mrs. Patmore barked angrily, brandishing a polished saucepan at Daisy. Daisy just smiled and shook her head, watching Thomas’ shadow slink further and further up the hallway. 

“Not so.” Daisy said softly, stopping Mrs. Patmore’s rage dead so that she was suddenly gaping at Daisy like a fish again. Daisy bit her lip, turning it rosy from the pressure of her teeth as she leaned in to whisper. “We’re _courtin’!_ He told me he loved me last night- I asked him if we were courtin’ and he said yes! Can you imagine that?” Daisy stood back, her voice suddenly breathless in her delight. She fanned herself without really even meaning to, looking silly but needing the cool air all the same, “I can’ even stand it, Mrs. Patmore. He loves me! He really really loves me!” 

Mrs. Patmore looked ready to faint. 

“Daisy-“ Mrs. Patmore slowly set her pan down, as if worried a loud noise might shatter the whole moment and throw the curtain back on something far uglier. “Do you remember what I said about-" 

“Mrs. Patmore, I’m loved.” Daisy snapped, cutting Patmore off before she had a chance to spoil the moment, “For the first time in my life I’m loved by someone who I love back, and I can’t remember ever being happier. Please don't try to spoil it for me.” 

Mrs. Patmore winced, a tiny pathetic noise in the back of her throat bubbling up. Daisy could spare her no sympathy when Thomas’ reputation was the expense. 

“Yes, but-“   
But before Mrs. Patmore could go on any further, their darkening conversation was suddenly stopped by the arrival of a visitor on their doorstep. Without an explanation as to how or why, Ms. Denker of the Dowager House was standing in the doorway of their kitchen in a moth-beaten coat and hat looking very sour indeed though quite determined. Both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore gaped at her, unsure of what she wanted or if she even knew where she was. 

After Lady Rose’s wedding, Denker had a … saucy… reputation to say the least. 

“Ms. Denker!” Mrs. Patmore made a series of spluttering noises as her hands shunted to her hips in slightest irritation. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

“I’ve come to beg your assistance on a matter most vital, Mrs. Patmore." Ms. Denker began, her tone grave and slightly concerning given her reputation. Daisy had to wonder what mischief was afoot. 

“Sounds like a crisis if you’ve come this far out-“ Mrs. Patmore tutted. 

“It is, Mrs. Patmore, it surely is.” Ms. Denker began, but before she could say another word Thomas re appeared in the doorway with a folded step stool in hand. His smile for Daisy suddenly turned into a scowl for Denker as he realized a visitation was imminent. Irritated, he passed Daisy the step stool who took it to unfold it and set it by the stove for easy leverage. Denker was gearing up for a fight, puffing out her chest and sniffing in an irritated and huffy manor as Thomas leaned back and gave her his ugliest sneer. 

Daisy couldn’t help but giggle; she loved it now when Thomas geared up for a fight. There had been times when that sneer had boded nothing but ill in the form of a tormented William or an aggravated Mr. Bates… but now, with Denker on the receiving end, Daisy found it oddly fitting that she be pitted against the strongest member of their house. 

It served Denker right after the way she’d treated poor Andy. 

"Oh dear, someone’s misdirected you-“ Thomas taunted, “The bar’s across town.” 

“Down kitten." Denker scowled, “I come in peace.” 

“I didn't know that word existed in your vocabulary.” Thomas shot Denker a nasty smile over his shoulder as he floated away back to the kitchen island where his clipboard lay waiting. His sneer was such a different thing to the smile he shot at Daisy. Such a sharp, vile thing like an iron sword tinged in blood compared to a smallest sweetest flowers of a meadow. “Wouldn’t the world ‘submission’ be a little more on point- You do look pale but then again you’re also not reeking of gin and sherry so I guess today’s been a poor day for you-" 

"Well we can't all sustain ourselves on spite alone, Mr. Barrow.” Denker snapped even as Thomas continued to smirk and sneer; he rested casually against the kitchen island, raising a daunting eyebrow at Denker as she put her arms over her chest and gave him another indignant sniff. 

“The more’s the pity Ms. Denker. What is it that you require?” 

“Broth, Mr. Barrow.” Ms. Denker grumbled the word with great disdain, “I require broth.” 

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore looked at one another agog.   
_‘Broth?'_ Daisy mouthed to Mrs. Patmore. Patmore shrugged, unsure. 

"Once again, you have been misdirected." Thomas snapped, tossing his battered pen upon the counter as he crossed out a few items on his list, “We are not a soup kitchen.” 

“I’m well aware of what you are.” Denker said, her voice turning the slightest bit vicious; there was something in the way she said it that gave both Thomas and Mrs. Patmore pause, a strange passing of information between the three of them that Daisy couldn’t understand. Thomas’ glare suddenly solidified, turning into a darker hateful thing that boded terrible ill should Denker test him patience for much longer. Denker looked a little less biting as she regarded her handiwork, her message clearly conveyed. 

Whatever that message was. 

“If you must know I’m here to learn how to make a broth.” 

“What you can't manage a broth?” Mrs. Patmore seemed dumbfounded at the idea that anyone anywhere couldn't manage a broth if they had the use of their limbs and a pulse, “Special or otherwise?” 

"Well of course I’d be very good at it.” Denker flustered. 

“If you only knew where to start.” Patmore clucked her tongue, putting up a few more pots before crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes in thought. Thomas had utterly no interest in making broth, for which Daisy couldn’t blame him- he was now poking his head into the pantry to tally up the number of flour and baking soda. A tiny smudge of flour fell as he poked a loose sack and he sneezed in spite of himself, his long nose twitching a little as he blinked flour out of his eyes. 

It was the cutest thing Daisy had ever seen. 

~*~

Elsie wished she could call it a pleasant surprise when Beryl Patmore banged on her door close to ten that night bearing news that Thomas Barrow had once again done the unthinkable by declaring that he was courting Daisy Mason. She wished she could say that it was all unexpected and terribly inconvenient for the rest of the house. She wished she could say that Daisy had never been more miserable- that Thomas was setting himself up for a life of being outcasted from society... but she'd be wrong on all counts and it irked her. 

Still. She’d rightly had enough. 

Charles Carson was a strange man, what with his new dream that he and Elsie should take up a cottage, turn it into an inn, and retire together with a room off the back for a maid and a lovely garden out front for wild flowers. Elsie’s mind was a jumble, half of it torn with fears over Thomas Barrows and half it elated at the idea that anyone should want to share her seat on the bus- never the less Charlie whom she was… incredibly fond of. 

More than fond, if she was honest. Not that it would ever come to anything much. 

She'd sought him out after Beryl had come banging on her door, finding him tucked away in the silver pantry going over a list of pieces for the holidays when the family should return- Christmas was hardly a simple matter at Downton, though they still had some weeks to go. 

She'd brought the London Magazine with her, finger crooked to hold place at the centerfold. Just like before when she'd told John Bates the terrible news of Anna's rape, she suddenly felt a sense of shame overwhelming her- that this secret was not hers to tell. That she was doing far more harm than she was good. The unfortunate truth of the matter was that the longer Thomas pretended to be in love with Daisy, the greater danger he fell in to believing the lie himself. It wasn’t so much Daisy that Mrs. Hughes was worried for, when Daisy was young and lovely with a certain and bright future ahead of her should the right man come waltzing by and have working eyes… it was Thomas. Thomas was a few years older than Daisy, not that it mattered much compared to Mrs. Hughes age of sixty, but he wore those years like a mourning widow might a black veil. 1920 had been unkind to Thomas, terribly unkind, and ever since that horrific night when ‘the incident’ had unfurled Thomas had looked more exhausted by the year. In his youth, before the war, when Elsie had found Thomas to be an utter pest and a horrid bully, Thomas had been incredibly handsome if not vain and snobbish. To be fair he was still handsome now (and Elsie could imagine how many men had fallen for his visage), but looks and likes only got a man so far in life. Thomas’ soul was a wilting thing, no doubt dying in his breast for every lie he told. Elsie had only seen it a few times, much like a historic painting from the Louvre being flashed hard before her eyes and then covered up again in the dark. Though the image was long gone, she could still recall distinct vivid details. 

The way Thomas had cried into his knees only to jerk, stumble, and fall. How he'd been so terrified of her judgement, so frightened of what she might say if she’d known the truth. The nature of his character. 

_“I love him and he hates me”_ Thomas had wept into his hands; Elsie would be hard pressed to forget his words, _“God help me, I love him. I can't live without him. I’m going to die without him, I am.”_

Elsie had no way of knowing what Charlie would say when she told him, but she could no longer weather this storm by herself. She needed a safe place, a mast to cling to, someone to talk to and help her make sense of the oddity that was Thomas Barrow. For her, such a place and person had always been (would always be) Charlie. The one obtuse bump on the whole scenario in her eyes was the fact that Charlie was not particularly fond of Thomas. To be fair, Thomas had once stolen twenty four bottles of Margaux; Elsie had a feeling Charlie would detest anyone for such flagrant thievery of his favorite wine no matter who the culprit was. 

So she sat by Charlie's side table, sherry poured and magazine on the table in front of her, watching as Charlie went over detail after detail in preparation for his Lordship’s Christmas. 

“Mr. Carson.” Elsie called out to him; at once he looked around with a small smile. “I hate to trouble you when you’re so hard at work, but I have something very important that I need to speak with you about." 

Charlie suddenly grew quite pensive, setting down Thomas’ clipboard to cross the room and take a seat opposite from her at the side table. There was something tense in his posture, in his eyes, as if he were now imagining all the flighty and fanciful things she might say that would fall under the guise of ‘something very important’. Elsie hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed when he realized what the topic of interest was. 

“Yes?” Charlie’s voice was painfully hopeful. Elsie wetted her lips before continuing on. 

“Mr. Carson…” Elsie tilted her head as she drummed her fingers upon the glossy cover of the London Magazine, “I know that you and Mr. Barrow have had a rocky road together, lord knows we all have-“ Elsie sighed haggardly. Charlie’s brow furrowed at the name, “But I'd like to think that if something were truly wrong, truly hurting him, that you’d want to help. That you'd be… worried about him." She fished for the word with greatest care, hoping it wasn’t too strong for Charlie’s taste. He hardly enjoyed to worry about anyone if it wasn’t Lady Mary or his Lordship, “Lord only knows he’s worked here for fourteen years. When he started he was barely fifteen. We’ve practically watched him grow up, and at times I confess I feel like a parent to him.”

“If only the original applicants had fulfilled their role.” Charlie sneered, rolling his eyes with unconcealed disdain. 

Like most times, he had a point, and Elsie briefly wondered if Thomas' parents had been the cruel sort. If his upbringing were the source of his discomfort- not societies pressures. After all, when had Thomas ever given a damn what others thought of him? 

“What has he done _now?”_ Carson grumbled, perhaps taking note of the crinkle in Elsie’s brow- the line of worry as her thoughts grew deeper and deeper. 

She sighed, taking up her glass of sherry to drain it in a small sip. 

She supposed there was only one place to start. 

“Do you remember when Mr. Barrow’s father was ill and he went to London to be with him?” Elsie asked. Charlie’s eyes narrowed momentarily as he searched his memory- but butlers were like elephants and forgot nothing in their quest to uphold the family they served. 

“I do.” 

Elsie chewed her lip again, tasting the sherry there. Charlie poured her another glass and she took a small sip from it. 

“He wasn’t ill.” Elsie’s tone grew soft in explanation, “Thomas was.” 

Charlie’s eyes narrowed again as he leaned back a little in his chair; the wood beneath him groaned in his shifting weight. 

“Ill how?” Charlie asked with greatest care, and though there was clear disdain in his voice for Thomas, there was also something else that Elsie could identify with. That strange solidarity to protect staff like family- to avoid scandal where at all possible. It was one of their finger bonding points: to protect their brood as a mother and father might, and something that brought Elsie a great sense of comfort. She had her struggle, but she was not alone. The burden was halved by Charlie. 

Elsie reached forward for the London Magazine to shuffle through it until she came to the centerfold. She spread it open for Charlie, twisting the pages around so that he could read it, and Charlie at once took it up to peer closely at the glossy pages in the lamplight of the little amber dome sitting on the side table between them. 

For a minute Charlie simply read. Elsie allowed him to do so in silence. 

“Thomas went to London to pursue this sick fantasy.” Elsie admitted bitterly, “He submitted himself to electric shocks, random vaccines and mystery pills- because all of it promised to turn him… _normal.”_ Elsie supplied for lack of a better word. 

Charlie was still reading, his brow hardened as he looked from Elsie to the pages before him. 

“But…” Charlie looked back at the pages, flipping it over as if hoping to find something in lieu of an explanation on the backside. Instead he found an ad for gramophones. “This looks like crockery.” 

“That’s because it is." Elsie agreed, glad to see that he didn't take much to catch on. Once again the subject of Thomas’ sexuality was lying on the mat between them, something neither could cover up nor hide from- Charlie was looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

_Well I’m sorry but men of_ that _sort do exist_ , Elsie wanted to grumble, _You’ll have to learn to handle it and get on with life._

“He went to London for electrotherapy, came back to the Abbey and kept up with the vaccines and pills because it was supposed to continue the process- the process to hell.” Elsie added bitterly. 

Charlie set down the magazine, pages still spread upon the table. He looked at her in that moment as if he did not know her- or rather as if she were speaking in a foreign tongue that he could not understand. She supposed it was a bit of a shock for him- he did hate it when things were made official. God only knows she was certain Charlie had been aware Thomas was different for years before ‘the incident’, but he’d certainly never taken it hard until it had been made… obvious. 

“He finally cracked, but only after weeks of the pain. He confided in Ms. Baxter.” Elsie explained. Charlie made a string of grumbling noises under his breath, leaning back in his chair again to stare out across the room. He took an absent sip of sherry, perhaps trying to sooth his grating nerves. “She took him to Dr. Clarkson who tried to warn him off of it, but the damage was done. Thomas has deluded himself and now he’s wrapped himself so firmly up in this guise that he cannot see the damage he’s done. What’s worse- and this is why I've told you now-“ Elsie added. Charlie’s gaze shot back to her, eyes wary once more, _“Daisy_ has fallen in love with him and he is allowing her to pursue him. He’s courting her, by his own admission… and…” Elsie trailed off, “He thinks he’s in love with her, but he's not. As I'm sure you can imagine.” 

Charlie’s jaw dropped. 

For a minute they stared at each other, Charlie with his mouth open and Elsie with her eyes wide. Charlie looked from Elsie to the silver cabinet, from the magazine to the door- it seemed he didn’t know where to start or what to even say. 

“… W-“ Charlie could not even get out the word, whatever it had been. He paused, hand coming up as if to try and re-cement Elsie’s explanation, but then he touched his open mouth instead and stroked his clean shaven chin with care. 

He rose from his chair, wood squeaking in protest, and paced in a small line for a beat more. Elsie waited with baited breath. 

“Is…Thomas still taking these vaccines and pills?” 

“Dr. Clarkson took away the syringe,” Elsie said at once, “but he’s still taking the pills. God forbid he might still be going to London for the shocks too. He looked terrible on the train ride back from Lady Rose’s wedding.” 

“And he left that night.” Charlie murmured, still drumming his fingers upon his lips. “And you say that he’s courting Daisy now?” He turned on his heel to look at Elsie. Elsie nodded at once, quite bitter. 

“Yes.” 

Charlie drew himself up to his full height with a great breath; this was hardly a small feat when the man stood past six feet tall and was over twenty stone. 

“I will talk to Thomas.” Charlie assured her. Elsie let out a tiny sigh of relief, “Tonight.” 

“You won’t be too unkind will you?” Elsie asked, for as much as she warmed to Charlie and knew him to be a kind hearted man, she also was well aware of his less-than-optimistic view of Thomas Barrow. 

Charlie just gave her a quizzical look; Elsie was unsure whether to be comforted by it or not. 

“I will be honest, Mrs. Hughes.” Charlie said. Elsie pursed her lips, “It is all I know how to be." 

“So long as you aren’t unkind.” Elsie repeated, stressing the word again. 

Charlie merely poured himself a sherry, drinking it down without a word to the positive or negative on the case of Thomas Barrow. He looked decided, his case of action no doubt already concrete in his mind, but Elsie could not distinguish whether he was angry or sympathetic. Whether he was concerned for Thomas’ health or simply irritated he'd had to have yet another conversation with Elsie about Thomas’… _preferences._

By the time they’d finished their sherries, Elsie was decidedly concerned for the conversation that was to follow. 

~*~

Carson had left a silver checklist half completed, which was rather out of character but Thomas didn’t care so long as he got the job done on time. Working with speed, he polished and primed, buffing away any scuffs marks upon trays, coffee services, tureens, and flatware. Christmas at Downton was all about opulence: showing up and showing out. Trivialities for the sake of tenant farmers were one thing, but Lady Edith and Lady Mary were practically at each other’s throats to out do one another every time the holidays rolled around. It was ridiculous, in Thomas’ eyes, simply because when he thought of Christmas he never thought of the gifts (since he never received any) or the parties (since he was never invited). 

Instead he thought of the food; the smells wafting out of Mrs. Patmore’s kitchen which helped to dull the painful memories of his mother’s cooking... some of his most precious memories of childhood. 

Odd how all precious memories involved her and Margret. Thomas could still remember being too small to fully reach on top of the kitchen counter but desperately scrambling for the Christmas pudding. Margret had been the good child, playing with her new doll in the foyer. 

Thomas had only wanted another taste of treacle that held the Christmas pudding together, whimpering and burying his face in his mother’s skirts until she gave over and let him have the spoon to lick. 

_Great god alive, I was a pest._ Thomas thought bitterly to himself, _It’s a miracle she didn't beat me too._

It was all for a purpose, Thomas told himself. All for an end goal. He’d never courted a woman before (frankly had never courted a man before either) but he knew that he couldn’t continue on the road he was going without sure and utter disaster. Everyone had someone, save for Thomas. He was tired of being alone. It was as simple as that. 

_Don’t think of love._ Thomas reprimanded himself as a terrible niggling guilt once more crept up on his brain, _Think of peace and comfort. Think of the warmth of being held._

_Think of your mother_ , another irritable voice piped up in Thomas’ head, _God only knows she never loved your father, and she still married him!_

Had she loved him? Thomas was unsure. She’d certainly done a lot more crying than laughing in Thomas' childhood… though she had laughed too. 

She’d bade his father to fetch her a head of lettuce from the market one time; he’d returned with a head of cabbage. She’d laughed so hard she’d fallen off her chair in the kitchen and cried, happy tears running down her face as his father snarled and spat that he had no use for knowing the difference between lettuce and cabbage and _“Would you get off the floor woman, I’m not here for your entertainment!”_

Still. He'd smiled at her all the same when he was done scowling. 

Thomas had stopped polishing, utterly caught up in the memory of his mother laughing hysterically with a head of cabbage in her hands and tears upon her plump cheeks. He reprimanded his error at once, continue to buffer a tray in his hands till he felt it sufficiently polished; he set it aside to check it off Carson’s list. 

A groan of wood underfoot gave Thomas pause. He looked over his shoulder, wondering at what he heard, and was suddenly startled to realize he was not alone in the room. 

Carson was at the door, watching him in absolute silence.   
For a minute they simply stared at one another; Thomas finally turned away to resume checking off the clipboard. 

Thomas shifted upon aching feet, pausing mid-inventory to flip through several pages of older order forms in order to make a correction on bottles of silver polish to be purchased for the upcoming holiday season. 

_We never have enough of this shit, do we?_ He thought as he looked at the half empty silver-polish bottle in hand. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas replied, a way of greeting and question all rolled into one though his tone did not shift nor his view from the clipboard. 

“Do you have a moment to spare?” Mr. Carson asked, but such things were trivialities and Thomas knew full well that any errand Carson might send him on was an errand he would have to take. Capping his pen and setting his clipboard aside, Thomas turned to receive his newest job. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” 

Carson said nothing to this, save to close the door behind him so that suddenly the pair of them were quite alone in his office with a strange tension between them that was not of Thomas’ making. Thomas suddenly realized that Carson did not have an errand for him, and a terrible knot of dread began to form in his stomach as Carson continued to look at him with bizarre reproach. 

As if he’d never seen Thomas before. 

“… Is something wrong, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked, fearful for the answer. 

Carson did not blink nor waver, solid in his judgment as he continue to watch Thomas from near the door. 

“Yes.” Was his only reply, calm but firm, “Something is wrong. And I think you know what.” 

Ice slid down his throat and into his chest, making him feel numb even as he took a deep breath. Carson continued to watch Thomas, waiting for him to slip up- waiting for the emotion to show on his face. 

Thomas turned at once, knowing full well that leaving the room would be impossible with Carson blocking the door. Instead he picked up his clipboard again and attempted to continue on with his prior pursuit despite the now shaking hand that he possessed. The scratching of his pen filled the room for a minute or two, no words forthcoming from Carson, until the soft steps of Carson approaching dominated the air for space and Thomas realized that Carson was directly over his shoulder. 

Carson reached out, and with a grip like iron gently pried Thomas’ clipboard from his shaking hands to set it back down upon the desk. 

Thomas swallowed, his throat tightening for every second that Carson did not speak. 

“Mrs. Hughes has informed me about your venture to London.” Carson said.   
Thomas shuddered. 

“The _real_ reason.” Carson added with a touch of displeasure in his voice. “You lied to me.” 

It was not a question. 

“I had to make it right.” Thomas said, unwilling to look at Carson as he spoke. Instead he focused on the silver pantry before him, whose glass unfortunately reflected both their faces in the amber light. Thomas looked at the stone wall instead, unable to bear even Carson’s reflection. How he _hated_ this, the way Carson could make him feel small and childlike without even trying, “Forgive me if the process wasn’t sugar coated-“ he spat. 

“I will not lie, I am pleased with the results.” Carson began. Thomas wished such a statement could bring him happiness; instead it only made a low pang of misery fill his stomach. “But I do not care for you to lie to me when you are my _assistant_ and, frankly, my replacement should heaven take me where I stand.” 

Thomas clenched his teeth at the very notion of being butler. It made him want to vomit, to imagine he might one day be Carson and die a slow painful death never living a life that was his alone. 

“You have lied to me in the past,” Carson continued on with clear disapproval. Thomas shuddered, head tilting back as he closed his eyes and willed himself to vanish from this room and the conversation. “On things one should never lie about. You stole from my wallet.” 

Thomas hissed at the sharp stab of pain that pinched his heart.   
He hated Carson in that moment. Hated him with all the passion and spite he could possess. 

_“Well you see”_ Thomas wanted to say _“I was getting over a rather bad break up and I couldn’t exactly nick any more wine from his lordships’ cellar so I decided to take a farthing from you to get me some paint varnish from the village square- nothing too strong, y’know. Just something to make me forget my lover called me a greedy whore.”_

Thomas pursed his lips. 

“You stole from his lordship.” Carson just kept carrying on, that tone of disapproval and anger scraping away at Thomas’ icy exterior till he could have sworn Carson could see the ugly pain underneath. “We have blessed you with forgiveness, and a chance to rebuild your sorry reputation in this house, and I do believe you’re making great strides in that direction… but I will not have drugs in this house, nor will I have lies under his lordship’s roof. Your father was never ill, you were. You _lied_ to me.” 

He said no more, his position clear.   
Thomas heart pounded in his throat, and even though his eyes were closed he still looked even farther away from Carson, twisting his neck until he was practically in standing with his back to Carson instead of his profile. Carson’s eyes were burning through his clothes, heating his flesh till Thomas wanted to scream from the pain. 

“I-“ Thomas was speaking with registering the words, the sentences coming out of their own volition, “I couldn’t say the truth at the servant’s table-“ 

“You could have said the truth in private-“ 

“No I couldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Carson demanded, his voice quite affronted, “Was there something stopping you of which I am not aware?” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

The words that came next were so raw, so deep, that Thomas doubted Carson could understand if given a lifetime to process it just how painful they were to admit. Just how much it cost Thomas to admit something so bone-grindingly personal to a man like Carson who could never aim to be sympathetic with Thomas nor offer him any comfort or relief. 

“I was ashamed.” Throaty like a bullfrog, Thomas’ voice was hardly his own. Not his emotional Stockport accent, nor his stoic servant’s blank… a strange warbling tone that was new to Carson and new to him. 

Carson said nothing for a moment, perhaps realizing even in his detached way that Thomas needed a moment to process his own emotions. This was quite a step up where Thomas was concerned, for as much as he knew he’d imagined Carson didn’t think him capable of possessing emotions. Carson certainly treated him as such. 

“And so you should have been.” Carson said.   
A wave of bile hit the back of Thomas’ throat; he clenched his teeth hard to keep from vomiting. 

“Your nature is a loathsome and foul creation.” Carson continued on. Thomas reached out blindly to grope for the edge of the pantry cabinet, hitting wood and holding fast to it. 

_Christ,_ he thought mildly, _I’m gonna bloody faint._

“One that, up until now, has ruled your life with an iron fist and caused you to be a most unpleasant person whom I’ve often wished could be booted from the house. I took no pleasure in keeping you on after that ridiculous incident with James, particularly when I knew what your nature was. You had every reason to feel shame, but that was no excuse to lie. I will say you have done well to cure yourself. Daisy is an honest and intelligent young woman; more than a match for you.” 

_Oh,_ Thomas thought in that same mild tone, _That’s nice. Glad you’re happy._

“But…” 

Thomas sighed, sagging underneath the enormous weight of Carson’s damning words. 

_What now?_ he wanted to rail, _What could you possibly have a problem with now?_

“You saw James in London?” 

A moan slipped past Thomas’ clenched teeth, a tight and ugly thing. 

Naturally. 

“Please, Mr. Carson.” Thomas whispered, shaking his head. 

_Please don’t talk about Jimmy. Please don’t say anymore. Please you’ve already done enough._

“Remember your priorities.” Carson warned with a sagely wisdom that might be reminiscent of a father if Thomas had ever had one that gave a damn, “And refrain from shirking back into disgusting habits again. Do not ever lie to me again. Ever. And stay on the righteous path lest you fall into the way of wickedness. Is that clear, Thomas?” 

He stepped a foot closer, and when he spoke again Thomas could feel the heat of his rotund belly, knew that Carson was making to intimidate him as much as he was looking to make sure his words had found their mark. 

They had. 

“Of course, Mr. Carson.” Thomas whispered, eyes pinched shut to try the conversation, the situation, any remnant of anything that made Thomas feel small and vulnerable. 

_Hide,_ his brain whispered feverishly, _hide damnit._   
But hide where, and into what? 

“If you lie to me once more, even only once more… You will be out of this house without a reference. Butlers cannot be liars. They also cannot be degenerate homosexuals…. any decent man could tell you this. You know this. You may be foul, but you are not stupid.” 

“No, Mr. Carson.” 

Thomas inched away, his hand slipping upon the wood of the pantry. He wished he could run, simply turn tail and bolt for the door to leave Carson and his silver for the dogs. 

“You have a capacity for goodness somewhere inside of you, Thomas. I will force it out of you if I must.” 

Thomas shuddered at the very idea. At the notion that Carson would now force him to continue on with Daisy. Would no doubt urge Thomas to marry Daisy, to start a family with Daisy, to go right into his grave with Daisy until the color purple had fled from eyes and weddings held in woodlands were made to rot in their premature grave. 

Till gold fled from hair and music from the world.   
Another wave of bile hit his throat. 

“Yes Mr. Carson.” Thomas whispered. 

“Very good.” Carson’s tone was short but the slightest bit appreciative. “Carry on- and keep your relations with Daisy respectable.” He added after a moment of consideration, “As much as I approve of this development with you, I will not have improper actions of any kind made under this roof.” 

“No Mr. Carson.” Thomas shook his head, “No.”   
Improper actions. God.   
Thomas clenched his teeth to keep the bile down. 

“I will be watching.” Carson warned. Thomas simply nodded, unable to speak lest he vomit. There were footsteps upon the floor, the sound of a door opening and closing. 

Thomas still had not opened his eyes by the time that the noise of Carson's heavy footsteps had faded into the distance. 

He had expected screaming. He had expected disgust. He had expected to be threatened with a sacking or to be sent packing from the house without a reference for daring to corrupt an innocent kitchen maid. Instead he’d gotten… approval. 

And it made him sick. 

Thomas knew he was going to throw up long before he actually did, the creep of churning bile in his throat heavy warning for what was surely to follow, and he vacated Carson's office at once to flee for the stairs to the servant’s quarters five stories above only to make it onto the hall just in time. Wounded hip utterly forgotten in his desperation to make it to the toilet in time, he slammed the door of the lavatory closed and locked it for good measure, fingers fumbling upon the tiny metal clasp so that he nearly abandoned it for a lost cause before stumbling over to the toilet and crashing to his knees.

He vomited. Heavily. 

He threw up once, twice, three times, and by the fourth heave there was nothing but acid churning from his mouth, stinging his tone and burning the hairs in his nose as he clutched desperately as the lid of the toilet. 

_“Your nature is a loathsome and foul creation.”_

_No, no, that's not so._ Thomas desperately thought even as he whimpered and wiped acid from dribbling from his chin. 

_But it is so,_ a nasty voice whispered in his head, _isn't that why you're courting Daisy?_

_I'm courting Daisy because I have no choice-!_

_You have every choice in the world m’laddo. You’ve just wizened up and realized what a fool you’d been running after men._

_It’s not a foolish endeavor to love!_

_Isn't it though? When all it gets you is sutures in your arse and a worthless position in a shallow house?_

“I am _not_ worthless.” Thomas choked aloud, gagging for breath as he nearly vomited again. He barely held it back, swallowing heavily to keep his stomach from rising; he took deep shuddering breathes. 

“I am not worthless.” Thomas whispered again.   
No one could hear him; he doubted he’d agree with him if they could. 

It wasn’t going to work.   
It was going to fail. His whole plan was going to fail. 

He huddled in that bathroom like a beaten child,terrified of the world he'd find when he strayed out. A world where Carson breathed down his neck demanding Thomas waltz Daisy through the wheels of courtship right up to the alter where he’d no doubt demand a vicar marry them and personally help them to settle into a cottage. He wouldn't be satisfied till Thomas and Daisy had had several children, a little brood of deranged homosexuals turned chefs that knew Thomas’ love but were completely absent from his true heart. Thomas could see it now, a son that might have his eyes or his dark hair that would look up to Thomas and never know the sting of Thomas’ fist. He’d have Daisy’s charm and Thomas' wit but he’d never know Thomas. Not truly. By the end of this life… Thomas would be a complete stranger from his entire clutch. A mask they knew, a man they did not. 

It was a fate terrifying enough to rival Gaol. 

Desperate for sanctuary, for a place to rest, Thomas rinsed his mouth out with water from the sink and stumbled from the bathroom to wobble to his bedroom on legs that felt like gelatin. In the dark, his room felt like a tomb in which he could encapsulate himself, a place he could rot without anyone ever knowing, and he collapsed upon his bed to feel the brings bounce with warning beneath. They squeaked and groaned, far from comfortable but perfect for Thomas in his time of need. 

But it wasn’t enough to lay there, to try and close his eyes fully dressed and with acid in his mouth when he knew Carson would be waiting for him the following morning. 

Waiting to dictate his future all the way up the aisle. 

Thomas' eyes snapped upon, his heart hammering in his throat so that he momentarily thought he might vomit again before he sat up and took several steep breathes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet jittering upon the floor as he held his face in his hands and breathed deep through his nose. 

His eyes fell about the room, looking from his bureau to his bedside table to his desk, desperate for something to offer him release. To offer him salvation in his time of need. In the Somme, he’d had his lighter; now in Downton he had…? 

Thomas’ roving eyes fell upon the pill bottle on his desk, half empty but beckoning.   
He stared at it for a solid minute, contemplating how even his pills weren’t working. A lighter was a simple thing; it flicked to offer flame. If those pills were anything like the liquids they'd come with, Thomas was in deep trouble. He needed something stronger, something… 

Something… 

Ah yes. That. 

He rose from his bed only to stoop down beside it and duck underneath. He grabbed a weather beaten valise from beneath his single cot, opening it with shaking hands as he laid it out upon his bed and turning around to reach for his wardrobe. He found what he sought inside after minimal searching- a pair of trousers and some shirts. Simple, basic, anything that would fulfill the purpose and get him through the next few days. He would not be going to London in style. 

On a whim, he picked up a book of poetry he’d purchased quite recently and had not had the chance to read yet. _Enough Rope_ by Dorothy Parker. It had only been published for a few weeks, a promising venture for Thomas to take up on as he lay in bed recovering. 

He would need something to occupy his mind; to keep his thoughts off the pain.   
He tucked the book of poetry between two shirts, and closed the lid of his valise. 

Thomas moved with such speed down the stairs and into Carson’s vacated office that one might wonder if he even had a healing wound upon his arse at all; the moment he was over the threshold he shut and bolted the door, setting his valise down in its shadow to snatch the telephone up from its hook and dial the repeated number. 

It only rang three times before it was picked up. 

“Yes, this is Mr. James Courtney-“ Thomas spoke soft and low into the receiver, desperately not to be overheard by anyone who might be outside the door. “I need to schedule an emergency appointment with Dr. Warren… for tomorrow. I’ll be leaving for London tonight. There’s been a relapse.” 

He barely registered the last of the conversation, save to note that his goal was accomplished and he ought to make haste for the train station. 

Thomas hung up the phone, grabbing his valise from the floor and his coat from its hook on the back of Carson’s door. His hat was lost to the Grantham Arms- to be fair it would only be one more tedious thing to carry. The less he had, the better. He knew from experience how much his body would ache after he was done. 

Thomas left the office, heading down the hallway for the back door as fast as he could, scooting through the shadows and staying out of the light as he passed by the kitchens where Daisy stood at the sink filling up a kettle for tea while Mrs. Patmore went over a list of recipes. 

Steam curled in her brown hair, amber light above turning it with flecks of gold; Thomas dared not look a minute longer. 

He’d made it past the servant’s hall and was nearly to the door of the exit area before a voice called to his retreating back made Thomas shudder to a halt. 

“Mr. Barrow!” 

Thomas swallowed, looking over his shoulder to find Moseley of all people coming out of the boot room. He looked quite amazed to see Thomas with a valise, and Thomas could not blame him. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Moseley asked. 

Thomas wondered at the concept of simply leaving without a word to Moseley.   
Then he imagined what Phyllis might say if she heard he was rude to her fancy man.   
As if he needed more problems. 

“I am.” Thomas whispered with a slight nod. 

“Does Mr. Carson know you’re leaving?” Moseley asked, perhaps sensing Thomas’ urgency to be unnoticed in the fact that he was standing in the dark and had not made to turn on the hallway light. Moseley took a step or two forward- Thomas took the same amount back. He bumped into the door. 

Moseley stopped, his smile slipping. 

“No.” Thomas admitted, shaking his head, “I’d rather not see him, I have to take care of some… urgent business. He’ll only try and stop me, I fear.” 

“…Mr. Barrow,” Moseley frowned, “Are you in trouble?” 

_I see purple and gold everywhere I go and I want to marry Jimmy in the woods. Daisy thinks we're courting and Carson's utterly thrilled- I'm not in trouble, I’m in hell._

“I am.” Was all Thomas could say, “And I have to go.” 

He turned for the door, seeking out its handle. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Thomas paused, gritting his teeth in sheer irritation for every second that he was delayed. “I want you to know that for all our past arguments, I’d gladly help you through any of this if I could. In any way that I could.” 

Thomas’ teeth unclenched, his hand slipping a little from the handle of his valise.   
He had a feeling Moseley was telling the truth, though it hardly helped him now. 

“No one here can help me now, Mr. Moseley.” Thomas murmured, knowing that if any salvation was available to him it would be in London. 

Pills were pointless. Shocks were not. 

“Tell Phyllis I’m sorry.” Thomas was unsure why he said it, only knowing deep down that it needed to be said. He took up the handle once more and slipped out the back door, leaving Moseley alone in the dark of the hallway. 

The air was brisk and cold, stinging upon the bare skin of his hands and face as he walked through the night; the crunch of gravel underfoot was his only companion through the dark. 

~*~

They sat clustered around the far end of the servant’s table, each more disturbed than the last; Joseph had his hands clasped before him on the table, unsure of what to say in light of the change of events. 

The minute Thomas had walked out the door, Joseph had turned tail and run straight for Carson’s office to find it empty. Carson and Hughes had been discussing cottage prospects in Hughe’s office instead. When Joseph had regaled them with what had happened, the three of them had immediately gone to the courtyard to call out in the dark in the hope of finding Thomas still lingering by the car shed perhaps getting a final smoke in. Instead, nothing but cold night air had greeted them and so they’d returned inside without a clue as to what to do next. Patmore had been informed by Hughes, and unfortunately for all of them Daisy had popped her head out of the pantry to promptly burst into tears at the news that Thomas had left for god knows where on a devil’s errand. 

Patmore had sent Daisy to bed early with a cup of tea, though it hardly did her any good. She’d practically begged on her knees to follow Thomas out, to search the train station for him or to take the car round the village. Neither option had been viable in such frigid weather at such a late hour, and even if they had been Daisy would not be the one going (this was the unanimous decision of the adult’s present). As it stood, Joseph was almost certain he could still hear Daisy crying from upstairs, her cup of tea no doubt going cold un-drunk. 

Now their little group sat clustered around the end of the servant’s table, a useless and lame lot in lieu of the hidden plans of one Thomas Barrow. 

Joseph sniffed, considering it all. 

Thomas Barrow was mean and surly, a thorn in everyone's side and an utterly incorrigible bully even at the best of times. If you gave him an inch, he’d take a foot- a penny for a pound and to everyone else’s disadvantage most of the time. But he was also a man, and every man was susceptible to pain, to weakness, to loss. To hurt. 

Joseph knew this more than most.

“But where would he go?” Carson asked again, utterly perplexed by the silence that followed his words from the others at the table. Joseph was struck in that moment at how blind Carson could be to what was surely obvious as the nose on his face or the bushiness of his eyebrows. 

_"Tell Phyllis I'm sorry”_ had been Joseph’s cue, a clear line as to where Thomas was going and what Thomas was doing. 

_“Thomas went to London to pursue conversion therapy.”_ Phyllis had whispered in his ear during their stroll after the Wallace Collection. _“To … change him. To make him more like other people. Other men.”_

Phyllis had been the one to protect Thomas, to force him to go to Dr. Clarkson. Phyllis had been the one to argue with Thomas, to demand he wizen up before he lose himself up the garden path. Mr. Bates and Mrs. Hughes might have warmed to Thomas but no one in the house cared for Thomas. Truly cared for him… save for Phyllis. 

_Then again,_ Joseph thought with softest care, _She is surely an angel. Angels watch over the wayward and the broken, the beaten and the weary. Surely there is some connection there._

“London,” Joseph spoke up when it became clear that no one else had caught on, “To the therapy unit.” 

Carson heaved an enormous sigh, looking a man twice his age as he rolled his eyes skyward and glared at the ceiling. 

“Well." Carson grumbled, “That settles that, then. Though I doubt he’ll return before his lordship does.”

Joseph blinked, taken aback by the queer lack of emotion from Carson regarding Thomas’ predicament. 

That was to say- it was slightly problematic that Thomas wouldn’t be available tomorrow night for dinner and such but-... was that really the main issue on the table? 

“Looking for a single building in London is like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Patmore lamented, never the one to enjoy cities nor their possibilities, “We'd never find it in a pinch unless we already knew where it was.” 

“But somewhere in one of them tonight, Thomas is suffering.” Hughes sniffed at this; Joseph diverted his eyes for the sake of modesty, un-eager to have her realize he'd spotted the red rimming her bagged eyes. 

She swallowed, her hands before her as she methodically folded and refolded an aged handkerchief. 

“I’ve seen electric shocks up close.” Hughes admitted; Joseph jerked his head up, momentarily horrified at the thought of Hughes strapped to a chair- she caught his gaze and shook her head at once. "Never on myself." she assured him, and Joseph let out a breath, “But I’ve seen what they can do.” 

She swallowed again, bringing a hand up to massage her throat as if her collar was too tight upon her neck. She fingered the black broach there, a simple obsidian thing rimmed in pewter. No doubt it had belonged to her mother. 

“The idea of him…” Hughes paused, “Being strapped to a chair and forced to endure, simply because…” 

But her voice trailed away. 

For a moment they simply sat in silence, each absorbed in thought. Then, Hughes spoke again. 

“We have to find him.” 

“But how?" Patmore asked, her voice weak with exhaustion. “D’you fancy a trip squirreling about London? And it’s not like any of us can leave the house with his Lordship returning tomorrow.” 

Joseph pursed his lips, considering the odds before him. 

Carson, Hughes, and Patmore were indispensable to the house, and with Thomas gone Moseley would be the only one available to serve at dinner. None could leave (and Daisy was certainly not going in any sense). The others returning tomorrow would bring greater numbers of strength, but certain people were out. Mr. Bates couldn’t go searching about London, what with his cane (though Joseph was never going to say that out loud). With two ladies maids, Anna might stand to take Phyllis' place, but then who would serve at dinner? 

_The hall boys might do_ , Moseley thought hopefully. _Then Phyllis and I could really give it a proper go. Searching that is._

He flushed at his own thinking, wishing his internal monologue could garner a muzzle. 

Delightful plans of romping about London with Phyllis Baxter in search of the notorious Thomas Barrow aside, Joseph still had no idea where they might start looking. What they needed was a lead, some hint of information to help them gather their bearings amid such a massive and sprawling city. 

What they needed was an address. 

“Might I go through Thomas’ room?” Joseph spoke up, nerves fluttering at the bizarre nature of his suggestion; Hughes blinked at him from across the table, slightly taken aback at his offer. “You never know, there could be a clue in there as to where he was going.” 

“I’m not sure what kind of clue he would leave.” Hughes said, bitterness creeping into her voice, “Thomas is a meticulous man. But you can certainly look through his room if you think it might help.” 

And with that, their journey was begun. 

Joseph ascended the stairs to the men’s quarters with the strangest sense that he was being watched. 

Phyllis had inspired so many things within him: an appreciation for the beauty of life and a determination to make something for himself within it all, but she’d also enlightened him to the dangerous animal that was Thomas Barrow. It had been one thing to watch with disappointment as a young Thomas stole straight from Carson’s pocketbook back before the war. It had been another entirely to see Thomas bully and provoke Phyllis right over the edge till she was a nervous quivering wreck. Joseph could appreciate the man's finer qualities, for every creation alive had a good side as well as a dark, but he could never (would never) get over the sight of Thomas forcing Phyllis into a state of shaky tears. 

_“I don’t know what to do.”_ Phyllis had whimpered between trembling fingers, _“It’s like he’s around every corner.”_

And so Joseph felt the same as he approached Thomas’ bedroom door. 

Thomas was a terribly private man, who hated the sympathies of others no matter how well placed they were. Joseph knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Thomas ever caught wind that Joseph had gone through his room looking for a clue as to his travels, Thomas would skin Joseph alive. 

Thomas would hunt him down and gut him like a fish in Mrs. Patmore’s kitchen, no doubt wearing his skin about town in some weird ritual fashion like the scalping techniques of Native Americans. 

_“Any other takers?!”_ Thomas would snarl at them all, holding Joseph’s bloody skin in the air, _“Anyone else want a piece of this?!”_

Joseph stared at the name tag: _Thomas_ upon the simple wooden door, pursing his lips as he weighed his options. 

Phyllis cared greatly for Thomas, Joseph cared greatly for Phyllis.   
In lieu of that he really had no choice. He’d walk into any form or fashion of hell to make Phyllis happy.   
Including this one. 

It was with greatest care and a bizarre sense of caution that Joseph finally pushed open the door, looking over his shoulder twice to check for Thomas though Joseph knew perfectly well that Thomas was probably on a train bound for London by now. 

It was dark inside; Joseph reached along the wall, groping in the gloom for the light switch to find it and press it hard. At once, two domed lights over the mantel came on. 

If someone had asked Joseph to name three items in Thomas Barrow’s room, Joseph might have at one point offered up the cautionary description of an ouija board, a massive surplus of Woodbine cigarettes, and a little black book full of secrets that Thomas had niggled out of every person who’d double crossed him in a back-fired scheme (Joseph included). What greeted Joseph instead was a secluded full of drawn curtains and dimly shaded lamps. Some things were far from surprising: a wooden ironing board propped up against the wall beneath the window sill and a beaten armchair that was covered by a red quilt to hide its original hideous floral print. 

Joseph took a tentative step forward, then another, eyes sliding over every corner of the room as if he’d been bidden to memorize it. He doubted he’d be getting a second look; he wanted to soak it up while he could. Maybe he could regale Phyllis with tales of it later; she’d no doubt be interested to hear what queer secrets Thomas had stashed away. 

Thomas’ desk held the guilty bottle of pseudo pills that Phyllis had warned him of; Joseph stepped forward to pluck it up, wondering at its label. He was surprised to find Thomas had ripped the thing clean off so that only a white powdery fragment was left of where the prescription had once been. 

Perhaps Thomas had been attempting to protect his privacy, determined that no one should know what these pills were for. Joseph sat the bottle back down with a sigh. Looking tentatively over his shoulder (unable to shake the nervous feeling that Thomas might barge in at any moment and throttle him for this invasion of privacy), Joseph reached down to open the drawer of Thomas’ desk. 

“What on earth?” 

It was full of pocket watches. Moseley suddenly felt like a child stumbling upon a pirate’s hoard as the light from Thomas’ beaded lamp illuminated a whole basket of minuscule screws and cogs like golden coins. Cautious lest he accidentally break one, Joseph reached down to carefully take up one of the pocket watches- he turned it backward and forward, pressing the stopper to open it and reveal an ornate time face beneath. It was unwound, three hands dull and mute upon a buffered face that had been hand carved with miniature suns. This was clearly the watch of a gentleman, with a long brass Albert chain that hung limp from Moseley's hand as he re-closed the pocket watch to set it back inside the drawer. He picked up another one and opened it to find it keeping time though on the wrong hour as if Thomas had only experimentally spun the nob without being eager to set the right time. It did not as of yet have a backing and, Joseph was amazed at the intricate detail of the cogs and gears as they clicked and spun. 

“Blimey.” He muttered to himself, setting the pocket watch back inside and gently shutting the drawer. That had been an interesting side venue into Thomas’ life but hardly enlightening as to his where about’s. Joseph scanned the room again, eager to take up another lead, and found his eyes lingering upon the white bureau squashed into the far corner of the room.

Upon the bureau sat a mirror, a container of Brilliantine (his comb was no doubt in his valise), a weather beaten packet of playing cards along with a half finished pack of cigarettes, and a picture of a soldier in uniform that looked stern but warm. His ranking was clear upon this collar and shoulder straps- a Lieutenant Colonel; he had a finely cut jaw and thick wavy hair that was determinedly knocked about by a comb though it looked like it didn’t do a half bit of good. 

“Who are you?” Joseph asked, approaching the bureau to pluck the photograph up and turn it over on the back. He opened the swing latch carefully to reveal the raw waxy backing beneath. 

_Lieutenant Colonel Edward Courtenay- 1914, Oxford_ was the evidence to be found beneath, inked in an elegant hand. Two folded pieces of paper tucked safely inside fell out, both old and powdery with yellowing age. 

Joseph knew he shouldn’t but reached out anyways, taking it up to unfold the top one letter. 

_“RETURN TO SENDER”_ glared ugly and clear at the top beside the scrawl of _“Suicide is an Sin!”_ in harsh, but feminine letters. 

Joseph's brow furrowed, continuing on to read the printed typeface: 

_“Mrs. Susan Courtenay  
2022 Whitehouse Road, Oxford OX1  
4NA_

_Mrs. Susan Courtenay,_

_We are deeply saddened to report the loss of your son, Edward Courtenay, Lieutenant Colonel. Our nation will not forget his sacrifice, and we can never repay our debt to your family. A simple letter cannot ease the pain of losing a child, but I hope you take solace in knowing that his brave service exceeded all measure of selflessness and devotion to this country. We honor him not only as a guardian of our liberty, but also as the true embodiment of the English spirit of service to a cause greater than ourselves. I offer you my heartfelt sympathy, and pray that God’s grace give you comfort as you grieve. In life, your son was a shining example of all that was best in the world. In rest, I truly hope he finds the peace he sought._

_My Deepest Sympathies ,  
Staff Sergeant Thomas Nathaniel Barrow."_

Underneath it, a feminine script was written, tucked tidily at the end of Thomas' typed passage by a woman's patient hand: 

_“Sgt. Thomas Barrow,_

_I am deeply saddened that you should imagine me as anything close to heartbroken in regards to the suicide of my son. Suicide is a clear sin, against the fifth commandment of God that commands us to self love as well as love for God, giver of life. We are stewards of our lives, not owners, and the man that takes his life does not wrong himself so much as he wrongs those around him. In this way, Edward deeply wounded our family in the Catholic community for which I will never forgive him. We likewise have no desire to bury him in the Catholic way with dignity on consecrated ground. We will leave such sinful work to you and your esteemed colleagues, and wish for no further contact from the war office. Our family has suffered enough for Edward’s delusions._

_Sincerely,  
Elizabeth Susan Courtenay "_

 

Joseph swallowed as he refolded the letter, looking down at the one below it with a sudden stab of fear. Part of him did not want to know what it said, too jaded and angry at the rejection of a mother after the tragic death of her son to want to know what came next. The only part of him, however, still believed in good and in the deliverance from evil. 

And knowing Thomas Barrow, if he’d put a picture of Edward in his room after such a letter like that… he’d not taken Susan Courtenay’s return message lightly. He’d probably waged war on the woman. 

Joseph set the first letter down, taking up the second one and unfolding it to observe the contents inside. Once more he was greeted by a feminine hand, and momentarily feared that he was about to find another nasty letter from Susan Courtenay, but was pleasantly surprised to instead find the Grantham Arms stamped to the top of the letter- a sure sign that this particular letter came from Downton Abbey instead of Oxford. 

_“My Dearest Thomas,_

_I am absolutely shocked at your letter, and cannot begin to convey to you how positively awful I feel about your situation. Such horrid words from a mother at the death of her own child, I can hardly believe it. I'm terribly sorry you even had to read it; please try to put it out of your mind. Some people can be utterly awful when faced with tragedy. I completely understand your situation, and am more than happy to help. Edward deserves a proper grave, and funeral costs are hardly cheap. I’ll be more than happy to lend a hand. Please use the enclosed money to bury Edward and never hesitate to write to me again. We absolutely are friends; stuff and nonsense to the idea of class division! I do hope everyone is well at the hospital, despite the uncertain times of the war ending. Please give my love to Rebecca and Grace, and write to me when you've ensured a grave for Edward. If it’s not too much trouble, I'd like to be there when he's buried. We were, after all, his closest companions in his final days. It only seems fitting that we both be there to the very end._

_Warmest Regards  
Sybil Crawley"_

“Huh.” Joseph could not help but stutter aloud as he looked over Sybil’s letter twice more. 

He could suddenly see Thomas in his mind's eye, weeping in private at the announcement of Sybil’s death with Anna's arm wrapped protectively about his bowed back. At the time such a display had made no sense. Now Joseph could understand absolutely why her death had shaken Thomas so hard. 

They’d been friends. Very good friends. 

Joseph let out a deep sigh, suddenly feeling older than his years as he refolded Sybil’s letter to place it alongside the damning note of condolence Thomas had originally sent to the Courtenay family behind Edward’s picture. When he relocked the picture frame and set it back down upon the top of Thomas’ bureau, Joseph regarded Edward with newfound respect. Suddenly that stern and warm gaze was a living thing, a man that had lived and breathed, had died a friend to Thomas and been buried with Thomas’ helping hand. Edward had given up on life, no doubt a broken man after the war, but Thomas never had. Edward’s final salvation had not come in the form of a suicide and its earthly release but in the form of Thomas and his determination not to leave a friend in the cold. 

If there was one thing to be said for Thomas, when he loved he loved hard. 

Refreshed in his determination to find out where Thomas had gone if only to help him out, Joseph opened the top drawer of Thomas' bureau. Inside he found a scattering of objects that made him laugh outright- an entire carton of Woodbine cigarettes and the missing ouija board that had once been hidden in Mrs. Patmore’s kitchen. 

It seemed Joseph had been correct in his initial assumption of what he might find in Thomas’ room, though the black book of secrets was missing. He snickered in spite of himself, bowing his head as he took a moment to smile with his eyes closed. 

After such an ugly condolence letter, it felt warm and heartening to smile at Thomas' antics. To remember that a man so sad was likewise such a irritating pest capable of making Joseph want to tear his thinning hair out. 

A wooden box sat in the back corner of the drawer, and Joseph was suddenly incredibly nervous as he slid it forward to open it precariously. 

If he found provocative pictures of naked men inside, he was going to had a difficult time in ever meeting Thomas’ eye again and make no mistake. 

It was with great relief that Joseph opened the box to find that it was not, in fact, full of scandalous pictures, but another cluttered assortment of items that made absolutely no sense. A series of small black and white photographs of a weary woman with three children, one upon her knee and two on either side of her. A picture of a shop front with a man out front, hand upon his lapel and looking sternly proper as he gazed into the eye of the camera. A picture of a beautiful woman with high cheekbones that looked startlingly like Thomas save for her long dark hair piled into an elaborate bun atop her head and sweet eyes that promised nothing but kindness. A bound manuscript wrapped in leather, of what Joseph did not open to discover. A set of letters bound for the Somme whose return address bore the signature of Sarah O’Brien, three war medals for bravery and heroism wrapped in faded blue velvet, but most importantly...! 

“Ah!” Joseph gasped, plucking the torn prescription label from the box to turn it over in his hands. His heart jumped in elation, for there along with a list of the ingredients and directions of usage was an address: 

“Zotepine. Each pill contains: Opium, Chloroform, Morphia, Sulph... skillfully combined with a number of other ingredients. From the doctors office of Warren and Warren, enquiries and appointments to 1606 Fulham Road, London, SW10 9NH" Joseph read aloud, only to stop and repeat, “Enquiries and appointments.” 

He grinned in spite of himself, and at once closed the lid of Thomas’ little wooden box, shutting the top drawer of the bureau with the prescription label clutched tight in his sweating fist. 

~*~

The return of his Lordship the following morning was marked with a fully of activity as maids and hall boys alike poured through the doors to the courtyard to take care of valises and boxes from the journey. Daisy was still in a state, forced to tally the boxes of newly arrive goods Thomas had ordered a few days prior with bleary eyes as she sniffed and sniveled in the pantry. Carson was suddenly once again surrounded by a group of flustered hall boys, all of whom had looked to Thomas for instruction and now were turning to Carson for orders; they heckled him like a group of spring chickens- clucking at his elbow and begging at the weirdest insistences: 

“Mr. Barrow said I should do such and such but I just wanted to make sure-“ 

“Mr. Barrow told me that I should do this when his Lordship arrived but now I’ve been asked to do another- which should I do-?” 

“Mr. Barrow wanted me to get these things done, which one should I do first-?” 

And suddenly the well worn end-statement of "Ask Mr. Barrow" had turned into a game of Mr. Carson getting more and more flustered with a group of five boys no older than sixteen. 

Joseph ran too and fro, helping the hall boys to circumnavigate Carson's growing temper and finish their errands for Thomas while desperately attempting to get a glimpse of Phyllis when she arrived back with Anna and Mr. Bates; he barely caught a glimpse of her black hat bobbing in a sea of heads. Suddenly he was the one being besieged by the hall boys who had unanimously given up on asking Carson for orders to instead take requests from Joseph. It seemed he was their ‘safer option’. By the time each had been ordered to fetch a valise and Joseph had made his way back down to the servant’s hall, Patmore had already gotten to Phyllis first and told her everything; Joseph only knew this because Hughes found him and told him, looking decidedly haggard despite it being no earlier than nine in the morning. Joseph clutched at the prescription label in his pocket, offering Hughes a comforting smile as she leaned to catch her breath along the wall of the hall. 

A clicking of heels against the stone floor sent Joseph’s heart a-flutter. He was hardly disappointed when he spotted Phyllis scampering past the boot room door to search inside- when she found it only occupied by a hall boy putting up emptied valises she kept on with her search. 

Joseph delighted in the way Phyllis froze when their eyes found one another; it was clear she’d been looking for him in how she suddenly came running up the hall, eyes set and determined upon his face with a flush to her cheeks. 

"I heard!" Phyllis was well and truly panicked, not even bothering to take off her mauve traveling hat as she stopped just short of Joseph. The light flush creeping upon her cheeks colored her skin the sweetest pink- Joseph might have admired it a minute longer if the news before them weren't so pressing. "When did he leave?" 

"Last night." Joseph informed her. 

“Then I have to go.” Phyllis jammed her hat a little harder atop her head, making sure it did not slip in her haste, “Now.” Her voice was forceful and determined, a brave sentiment Joseph could not help but admire. 

"Go?" Mrs. Hughes looked quite pained amid the panic. “Surely not up to London, though- Her ladyship-!” 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes.” Phyllis shot Hughes down, her voice sounding far from sorry at all; her dark eyes had a blazing quality about them, a firmness that made Joseph feel ten feet tall, “Truly I am. I don’t like to be a nuisance to you or to Anna, but I cannot let Thomas suffer this twice. He’s like a brother to me- I have to go and stop him.” 

“I’ve already thought it through!” Joseph quickly backed Phyllis up even as Hughe’s opened her mouth to voice the very obvious complaint; he fished in his pocket for the prescription label and held it out for both women to see. Phyllis’ eyes popped open wide at the list of ugly ingredients. “I found this in Thomas' room last night- it's the prescription he's been taking and the address to the doctor’s clinic. I've no doubt that’s where he’s gone. I know where this street is; we can take the train up to London right now and probably head him off if we’re quick enough.” 

Phyllis gripped the prescription tight to her breast, folding it several times after a second to stick it safely into her pocket. When she smiled at him, it was with such intense relief and happiness that Joseph momentarily felt like he was floating off the ground from the force of her joy. 

“Thank you, Joseph-“ Phyllis bleated; Joseph’s heart skipped a beat at the slip of his first name across her lovely lips, so pale pink, “Thank you.” 

Before Hughes could voice her distress, their group was approached by two more. The Bates’ had returned from the outside, coming up the hallway in slow gate as Mr. Bates carried on with his cane. Ever since the fight at the Grantham Arms he’d been walking just a tad bit slower than before. Both looked worried, though hardly hurried; Phyllis on the other hand seemed to be holding herself back with the thinest veil of self-control, eager to run out the door and head for the train station as quick as she could. 

“We've heard." Anna declared, taking off her hat and tucking it neatly under one arm to smooth back her golden hair. She pursed her lips in displeasure, sticking her hat pin in her pocket for safe keeping, “What are we to do? Mr. Barrow’s a member of the upper staff, without him we run a peg or two slower.” 

Mr. Bates came up from behind, standing just in Anna's shadow as hall boys and maids scooted about them on either side carrying in valises and traveling cases from the wagonette. 

“Anna, will you please take over her ladyship tonight while I go to London and retrieve Thomas?” Phyllis begged. Anna looked slightly taken aback. 

“But whose to say he won’t come back on his own?” Anna demanded. 

“He won’t.” Joseph assured her; Anna’s frown grew even deeper in crease, “He had a rather damning conversation with Mr. Carson from what we understand.” 

“They’ve never enjoyed one another.” Anna sighed, a sentiment Hughes shared as her eyes went skyward. 

“I should never have let him talk to Thomas alone.” Hughes lamented bitterly. 

“Do you think you can get him back?” Bates asked Phyllis. 

“I’ll drag him back by the neck if I have to.” Phyllis growled, a certain fervor in her voice that made shivers go down Joseph’s spine. Crikey she set him on fire! Bates smirked in spite of himself. 

“I’ll go with her.” Joseph declared, quite eager to set off as soon as possible. Hughes balked at this, eyes going wide once more as she gave Joseph a reproachful look. 

“You most certainly will not!” Hughes cried out; Joseph deflated at once, wincing as Phyllis’ face likewise became crestfallen, “With Thomas gone, if you leave we're out of our dinner party.” 

“It’ll only be for just one night!” Joseph tried to assuage Hughes, but it was in vain. The look she gave him was quite final. 

“One night is more than enough." Hughes warned. Joseph bit his tongue at that. 

“I’ll go with her, Mr. Moseley.” Bates spoke up, and Joseph did a double take as Bates shifted a little upon his cane. Anna and Hughes were likewise surprised by such an extensive favor; Bates could hardly walk about London all day without some effort, “Mr. Carson can look after his Lordship tonight. It’ll be for the best-“ he added at Joseph’s crestfallen face, “Thomas and I have known one another longer and for all our petty squabbles in the past I have a feeling he’ll listen to me.” 

“In other words you’ll give him no choice.” Anna deduced. Bates smirked again. 

“Quite right.” Bates agreed. “I think it’s about time that I repaid him for his kindness, don’t you?” 

“Then we leave-“ Phyllis cut across Anna’s smart comment, still holding a fire in her mouth as she glared Bates down; her determination was palpable. “Now.” 

“Now indeed.” Bates agreed, no doubt sensing that if stayed a moment longer Phyllis would yank him out the door by his ear. 

“I’ll tel Mr. Carson.” Hughes assured the pair of them, turning on her heel to march off down the hall with her keys clinking merrily upon her hip. 

“I’ll tell her ladyship.” Anna gave Phyllis one last smile before hurrying off down the hall after Hughes, bound for the staircase and the family rooms above. Bates had already turned, heading back towards the door to the courtyard where hall boys and maids were still scurrying like ants under a magnifying glass. Phyllis turned, ready to leave, but paused mid step towards the back door as she felt for the prescription label in her pocket again. 

She caught Joseph’s eye and held it. 

"Thank you, Joseph.” Phyllis whispered, suddenly engaging the pair of them in a private conversation despite the fact that they were in a packed hallway. Joseph smiled, bitter but happy to help. “Truly. For everything.” 

“I wish it were me. Going with you." Joseph admitted, hoping the bitterness did not show in his voice. Even if it did, Phyllis did not seem to begrudge him for it. If anything, she shared it. 

“As do I." She said. 

Joseph’s heart skipped another beat. 

Phyllis left on that final note, running up the hall and bumping rather painfully into two maids as she went flinging apologies over her shoulder. She vanished through the door and into the courtyard, gone just as quickly as she’d come leaving nothing behind but a hint of her gentle perfume and a burning stare that wilted Joseph where he stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note: Enough Rope by Dorothy Parker would have actually come out a few months after the timeline of this chapter. I bent the rules of the universe. 
> 
> I thought people might get a kick out of knowing this chapter was over fifty pages long in my writing document. I guess I have a lot to say, Idk. This roller coaster just keeps spiraling and spiraling, and now we're going back to London. 
> 
> Now, who on earth did we see the last time we were in London?   
> Oh yeah. That's right.   
> Jimmy Kent. 
> 
> Fancy that.


	12. A Very Short Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Kent was indeed beautiful, and Thomas already knew him to be charming, poised, well read, and street wise. Everything he found admirable in another human being. Yet all these things were a blip in time, a mere hiccup of the universe compared to the peace he found within Jimmy’s soul and mind. The ability that Jimmy had to simply make him feel “not-alone”. When Jimmy was near, so to was Thomas’ heart. When Jimmy closed his eyes, Thomas went to sleep. When Jimmy found a joke funny, Thomas’ lips formed a laugh. When Jimmy touched his breast to feel his heart, it was Thomas’ hand upon his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for medical torture and for mentions of child abuse in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, the poem located within is obviously not mine; it belongs to Dorothy Parker, and can be found in her first volume of poetry, "Enough Rope"

The last time John had been wandering around London, Lady Rose had been destined to wed and Anna was determined to give their London house a thorough look over. Moseley, Baxter, Thomas, and Daisy had gone to see the Wallace Collection; Anna had jumped at the chance to stroll about town with John on her arm. Something about ‘blotting out bad memories' and ‘making new ones'... and John had been only too happy to assist. The Grantham House was located in South Kensington, a good thirty minutes away from their London house which was located in Southwark. Conveniently enough, the address on the prescription label Moseley had found in Thomas’ room was located in Southbank which was in the same district as Southwark and close to their London house. Thus, John knew the area well, and the moment he stepped off the train platform with Baxter the pair of them made smart time for Southbank without a moment to spare. 

The air was frigid, a heralding to the onset of winter which threatened to open up on them with a sky full of snow at any moment; overcast and dismal, the city of London was a pale gray in afternoon light, with no room for warmth save for what could be found in thick coats and wool gloves. Most people were shopping for Christmas, and though many were were stopping to pear into windows with great intrigue, none seemed eager to stay too long. It was simply too cold for pleasurable walks- you got your errand done and you went home. Unfortunately for John and Baxter, their errand involved a bit more walking than most. They made an odd couple, strolling up High Holborn in Southbank, bound for Fulham road despite how Baxter kept looking over her shoulder and around every bend- she was clearly hoping to see Thomas hiding in an alley taking a smoke or browsing through a shop. But John knew better. When Thomas was set on an errand, he would be accomplishing it come hell or high water. Thomas was either already at the clinic or recovering in a hotel nearby. Bad leg or no, John had no qualms about searching every hotel in the immediate area to find Thomas and drag him back to the Abbey. 

_I’ll kill him for making me walk in this cold._ John thought bitterly. _I’ll save him, then I’ll kill him. Anna won’t mind, his body will be good fertilizer for our garden._

Then again, even if John killed Thomas and buried him in their backyard, they still had that rabbit problem to contend with. 

They were coming close to an intersection of busy shops packed with venders and window shoppers- chances were a side alley could take them over to Fulham road. As it stood though, they still had a block or so to go and John found his eyes drifting all over the place in an effort to make the time (and walk) go faster. It was just by the grace of god- just by the fact that John was looking and the shop was there, that John’s eyes fell upon the storefront of a record shop. He paused, his eyes catching sight of a figure browsing through records, and he had to do a double take to make sure he'd seen right. 

He had, and he gaped. 

Years later, when things would be incredibly different for all involved, John would look back on that moment standing outside of the Zodiac Record shop in High Holborn and consider it a turning point for whom he saw ferreting through new vinyls inside. Clad in a fashionable blue waist coat and matching jacket, golden curly hair shoved every which way under a dark blue newsboy and throat kept warm by a knitted gray wool scarf, Jimmy Kent was every bit as fashionable as he was aloof. He cast one vinyl a glance only to be taken up by another, leather satchel over his shoulder and head bowed as he picked up a promising record to flip it over and look at the back. 

_Ah yes, there you are._ John would remember thinking, _There's the one Thomas loves._

At once, John stepped off the street to enter the Zodiac Record shop, a determined glint in his eye; Baxter followed through after him, both of them making a bee line for Jimmy. They side stepped two flappers discussing a jazz vinyl at the front to cut him off, each on a separate side of Jimmy so that when he looked up from a new Spike Hughes record he suddenly found himself surrounded by familiar faces and was instantly taken aback. Covering up his surprise at once, Jimmy gave them a smug grin as he tucked the Spike Hughes record under his arm and took off his newsboy cap. 

“Mr. Bates! Ms. Baxter!” Jimmy greeted them both, happy to see them but slightly tense for having been surrounded so quickly. John could hardly blame the boy; he must feel targeted. "What are you two doing here? Is his Lordship back in London ag-“ 

“Jimmy there’s been an emergency." Baxter cut Jimmy off, voice tense as she cast a nervous glance back towards the door. She was searching the street, even as they stood in the shop, as if praying she might see Thomas walk by and be able to head him off. “We need your help." 

“Emergency?” Jimmy sounded quite perplexed, if not a little annoyed. No doubt he must be wondering what any emergency of Baxter's had to do with him of all people. 

“Thomas needs your help." John said, knowing full well that Jimmy wouldn’t be eager to get involved unless he felt personally motivated to do so. He and Thomas was so alike it was disturbing. 

The word was like a light switch. 

Jimmy set the Spike Hughes record back down, turning around to face John instead of Baxter with wide and knowing eyes. 

"What's happened?” Jimmy asked at once. His tone was unnaturally hard. 

_Clear as day,_ John thought as Jimmy’s jaw grew tense and locked, _You love him and you don't even know it._

“Walk with us.” John urged, an idea suddenly forming upon him even as he spoke. “We’ll explain everything in private.” 

Jimmy did not need telling twice, the first one out the door of the record shop with the promising vinyl long forgotten as he stormed down the street; John had to hustle to regain the lead, cold wind whipping at his face once again as he caught Jimmy’s eyes while holding the door for Baxter. John jerked a gloved hand, pointing to a side ally that cut High Holborn in two and with luck would move them onto Fulham Road where they needed to be. The three of them made hasty time, Jimmy’s leather soldier satchel swinging upon his shoulder as he cut rudely through a group of clustered customers outside a tailor’s shop to take the side alley John offered. At once, the atmosphere changed from clean street fronts to grimy and winding lanes where two men could barely stand side to side. Fulham Road was on the other side, just as dismal and dark as the alley on which they were currently walking and clearly no place for a professional doctor to practice medicine- the entire area reeked of pale misery that lay in the wake of poverty and starvation. A weird hue of desperation seemed to turn everything a dark ugly brown, coloring the road underneath their feet and the walls that closed them in on either side so that as they passed underneath the arch of a low-end housing unit, John called their entire group to a halt and forced them into an even tighter passage where crates full of rotting vegetables were stacked to create a secluded grotto. There was hardly room enough for the three of them to stand together, but it was necessary if they were going to have this conversation. Understanding and compassion for men like Thomas were uncommon even in 1924. Should the wrong person overhear, disaster would follow... and in a city like London anyone could be listening at any time. 

“Cor-" Jimmy looked about at their dingy camp with wary eyes; it seemed he understood the nature of their dilemma and John's desire for a quiet area, "What's he gone and done now-?” 

Baxter looked at John, her dark eyes widening. 

_“How do we tell him?”_ She seemed to be asking. 

“What?” Jimmy interjected angrily, displeased that he was being kept in the dark. His blue eyes flashed with irritation, “If he’s hurt you better tell me right now-!” 

“Keep your shirt on.” John demanded. “It's a long story.” 

“Well you better start telling me!” Jimmy huffed. 

_Fine enough, you little twit._ John thought, eyes narrowing at Jimmy's nasty attitude. Thomas might be head over heels in love with Jimmy, but as far as John was concerned, Jimmy was still an annoying little prick that could do with an attitude adjustment. 

_Another trait you share with Thomas,_ John tilted his head as he regarded the high color rising into Jimmy’s plump cheeks. Sometimes he was taken aback, looking at Jimmy (really and truly looking at him) and realizing that this was the creature Thomas so greatly adored. 

“A few days after you left Downton, Thomas found an article in the times.” John said, pausing when Baxter rifled through her handbag to pull out a copy of the London Magazine to show it to Jimmy. It was curled in a tube formation, already open to the damning page. Jimmy took it at once, spreading it open in a firm grip to read it despite the poor lighting of their grotto. 

Jimmy's brow grew increasingly furrowed, and by the time he was finished reading the magazine he lowered it with an unnervingly slow pace to glare fiercely at both John and Baxter. As if this was all their fault. 

“What the actual hell is this?” Jimmy snapped, waving the magazine about with an angry hand. "You tell me right now! What is this?" 

“It’s stuff and nonsense!” Baxter proclaimed, deeply upset. 

“So I gathered!” Jimmy sneered, "But what’s it got t'do with Thomas?” 

“It’s got to do with Thomas because Thomas fell for it!” Baxter snapped, her own nerves grated by Jimmy’s snarly disposition. 

Jimmy scoffed, hardly believing a word of it. 

"He wouldn’t do such a thing." Jimmy muttered, quite confident in his declaration, "He's far too clever." 

“He did!” Baxter assured him; Jimmy blanched at the sincerity in her voice, “He was low and you were gone. So he took the bait and went to London for therapy to try and cure himself of his-" Baxter broke off, looking back over her shoulder at the opening of their grotto. 

She couldn't say the word, but it hardly mattered. It was easily implied. 

Jimmy just snorted, still in firm disbelief. 

“That’s rich.” Jimmy said; John noted that Jimmy did not hand Baxter back the magazine, and instead stuck it in his leather satchel as if he was going to read more into it later. It seemed Jimmy was waiting for them to laugh, to rub elbows and admit that it was all a gag. That Thomas Barrow, clever as a whip, would never fall for something so easily meant to be a death trap for the weak and weary. But when neither John nor Baxter changed their tone, when neither laughed and brushed it off, Jimmy’s face fell from smug composure to absolute and utter panic. 

“But-!" Jimmy looked from John to Baxter. John did not blink in his dour glare. “But you can’t change that about a person! Thomas would never even want to change that about himself!” 

"Really?" John snapped, his patience quickly drying out for Jimmy's desperate claims, “Because he does. He’s made that quite clear-" 

“But how do you even go about that?” Jimmy demanded, blue eyes dazed. “How- how does that even begin to work?” 

“With electric shocks, vaccines- pills that are doing god knows what-“ John listed off each concept with calm contempt, knowing full well it would only rile Jimmy up further. 

It worked like a charm. 

“Shocks?!” Jimmy shouted the word, his sharp voice bouncing like a cricket ball off the walls of their confined grotto, “Sh- he’s been _shocking_ himself?!” 

John nodded, lips pursed. Baxter bowed her head. 

“Where is he?!” Jimmy shouted, face blistering red with rage; he’d clenched both his fists and was holding them before his chest as if he meant to _punch_ Thomas in his anger, “I'm going to break his gormy neck-!” 

“Oh but don’t you want me to explain the rest?" John asked in that same calm contempt. He couldn't resist it, couldn’t stop himself form poking Jimmy and riling him up- the madder Jimmy was the more determined he would be to get Thomas to stop. That was how it had always worked, even back at the Abbey. When Jimmy got mad, Thomas soothed him down. Thomas and no other. 

And John was certain Jimmy was going to lose his mind when he heard the rest. 

“If you’re hiding something from me-!” Jimmy spat; John cut him off with an errant wave of the hand. 

_Down kitten,_ he wanted to say. 

“This was a while ago.” John explained, “Back in September when you left… after Thomas went to London he returned home to the Abbey and continued with the therapy process on his own. Vaccines and pills, correct?” John turned to Baxter. Baxter nodded solemnly, “They got him horribly sick, but Baxter managed to squirrel the truth out of him and took him to Dr. Clarkson who helped him to get better. He took away the syringe, but he didn't take away the pills so Thomas continued taking them.” 

"God-" Jimmy seemed to have gathered the rest, turning to slam an angry hand upon an empty crate; the wood shattered, breaking with ease beneath Jimmy’s bolstered grip, “Ruddy quack!" 

“It gets worse." John assured him. Jimmy turned in fear, swallowing hesitantly even as he gripped the broken wooden blades of the crate. 

“You see, Jimmy, Thomas has so deluded himself into think that this is possible- that these pills can change him- that he’s now decided to court Daisy and she couldn't be more thrilled about it. The pair of them are right little love birds." 

Jimmy's expression slid from fear to blank awareness; he blinked several times, lips almost twitching into a small smile. 

He snorted, then began to laugh, but he laughter died in his throat even as John and Baxter continue to watch him. John could not help but be worried at his reaction, noting that Jimmy seemed to almost be in shock now. He’d slumped against the crates, still holding onto a stick of broken wood as he looked first at the ground, then at John and Baxter. 

“Daisy.” Jimmy repeated the name for clarification. John nodded. “No. That's not funny. You're joking. You're seriously joking.” 

“We’re seriously _not._ ” Baxter assured him. The blood drained from Jimmy’s face. 

“D…" but Jimmy couldn't even finish the name. 

“It’s gotten very serious.” John said. Jimmy just spluttered and railed. 

“S-Daisy?!” Jimmy was back to shouting. “He’s stepping out with Daisy- are you bloody well kidding me!?" 

At this, Jimmy threw the stick of wood he held so that it soared right past John to clatter into the alley way behind them where it lay dumb and useless. Jimmy lashed out again, kicking at a crate low to the ground so that it broke and spilled a bundle of rotted turnips onto the pavement. 

“Are you- where is he- is he in London- I'm gonna kill him, I am!” Jimmy couldn’t stop one sentence without starting another, spluttering and fumbling as each new wave of information rocked him to the core. 

_Yes, good, kill him._ John thought triumphantly, _Kill him, then kiss him, and spare us all the grief._

“That's just it!” Baxter spoke up, and John was quick to notice the nervous hope in her voice, “Thomas and Mr. Carson had an argument last night and he ran back to London to pursue another round of shocks-" 

Jimmy spun on his heel, mud and grit sliding beneath his shoe as he gaped at Baxter. 

“You mean he’s at this place?!" Jimmy yanked the magazine out of his satchel to wave it before them all, “Right now?!” Jimmy pointed at the glossy page with an angry finger, almost poking a hole through the page, “Getting shocked, right now?!” 

“Yes!” Baxter breathed an enormous sigh, everything now out in the open and for Jimmy to comprehend at last, “We were on our way there to head him off when we ran into you, and we thought-!” 

“Take me there!" Jimmy spat, not even allowing her to finish. His blue eyes were blazing with an incredible fire, and though Jimmy surely didn't know it, John was certain it was love, “Take me there right now.” 

_Good, set the whole building on fire._ John thought, mildly impressed, _I’ll fetch you the kerosene._

"Only if you promise to keep your temper with him- he’s not in a good place mentally, Jimmy-“ 

“Fine, fine, whatever-“ Jimmy spat, waving his hands about; John doubted he'd heard a word of what Baxter had said, “Just take me there, damnit!” 

“So you’ll help us?” Baxter asked, hopefully. 

Jimmy just glared at him, lower jaw sliding back and forth in the tensest fashion. There was no room for debate. 

“Of course you will.” Baxter answered her own question, soundingly slightly miffed at herself for even being foolish enough to ask it in the first place, “Right. Come on.” 

And so the three of them set off at once. 

They exited the grotto and the ally, stepping out into the pale gray light and Fulham Road all in one; Baxter pulled the prescription out of her pocket and looked it over with care. 

“1606 Fulham Road-“ Baxter read aloud. Jimmy snatched the label from her, looking it over, making a row of spluttering noises as he read the ingredients of the pills. 

“Skillfully combined with a number of other ingredients?!" Jimmy read off sharply, glaring at Baxter and John in turn, "Combined with _what_?!" he demanded. “What the hell else could they shove in there, lye?!” 

John wouldn’t put it past them. 

The building before them was an apartment complex, looking dingy and bare with a pair of grimy children sitting on the front step almost in rags- they were watching the three of them with care, no doubt wary of every stranger they saw. The plaque upon their building read ‘1502 Fulham Road' with another complex to its left reading ‘1500’. 

"This way." John snapped, turning right and heading up the road. He watched the numbers upon buildings going past, counting them in turn, and by the time they’d reached the 1600's the street had turned from a grungy ally into a quiet side street that was still desolate but slightly cleaner. John noted with caution that every group they passed on their way up seemed to have the same pained look upon their faces. A group of teenagers were arguing with one another, one looking on the verge of tears. Another group of women were whispering pitifully while consoling a young girl who kept wailing into the skirts of a crone who might have been her grandmother. 1606 Fulham Road was a tall brick building, connected either side by the same wall face that eluded to more medical shops. Windows up top were covered in white curtains though John could see shadows moving beyond them. The glass front on the ground floor showed a receptionist sitting behind a bare desk inside where a stack of papers and a small jar of flowers sat wilting in the cold. 

“Is this it?” Baxter asked, looking over her shoulder and back up the street. 

“Has to be." John grumbled, “It's the same address.” 

"But there's no sign or anything. What if it’s the wrong building. It's so... calm.” Baxter fumbled with the word, ‘calm' hardly sufficing for what she actually wanted to say. 

“Hell doesn't need to promote itself.” John said. Baxter went a shade paler at that. 

Jimmy pushed through the pair of them, opening the door and stepping inside without waiting for a game plan or any attempt at unit-working. 

_Idiot!_ John wanted to shout, _Get back here so we can make a plan._

But it was too late. Whatever happened next, they would have to work off ingenuity alone. John pursed his lips, holding in a grumble as he stepped inside to hold the door open for Baxter. She was slow in her gate, looking left and right with wide, fearful eyes; she seemed to be praying she’d find Thomas sitting just inside… but Thomas was not there. 

It was a quiet waiting room, where only three other people sat on hard sofas and sterile chairs. A young man, no older than twenty, sat in a chair by the opening to a hallway with an exhausted and bitter composition upon his face. He was pale and sweaty, as if fevered, and kept shaking in the chair on which he sat. He was handsome and miserable, close to whimpering as he clutched his face in his hands. 

Across from him on a threadbare beige sofa sat a young boy, perhaps no older than thirteen or twelve, beside a man who was probably his father. The young boy was crying, not even bothering to hide his tears; the man beside him was resigned if not angry, scowling down at the boy as he cried pitifully into his newsboy cap which he’d taken off to clutch in both his tiny hands. He was terrified, utterly terrified. 

“Da’ please.” the boy whispered, voice hitching beneath a sob, “Please can’t we go home? I promise I’ll never do it again.” 

The man beside him said nothing, cold in his resolution. 

“Can I help you?" the receptionist sitting behind the front desk spoke up- she was an older woman close to Baxter’s age with black hair pulled back in a heart bun and bright keen eyes which flashed behind wire rimmed glasses. John took the initiative, stepping in front before Jimmy could open his mouth and say something stupid. 

As it stood, Jimmy looked ready to faint glancing back and forth from the crying child upon the sofa and the broken youth in the chair. 

A strange sound drifted upon the air. It sounded like a faint, muffled scream. Jimmy twitched. 

“Yes,” John leaned a little upon the receptionist’s desk, giving her his calmest smile despite how his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. “We’re here to pick up a Thomas Barrow from his appointment today.” 

The receptionist, looked down at her client list, scanning it with a finely manicured nail and coming up blank with a curious stare. 

“There’s no Thomas Barrow scheduled for today.” The receptionist said, politely confused but beginning to look wary of John. John smiled, holding a finger for pause as he turned to confer with Baxter and Jimmy. 

“He wouldn’t use his actual name.” Baxter whispered in John’s ear, her breath flighty upon his neck. “He’d be too wary for that." 

“Like hell we can't just grab the book and scan through it can we?” Jimmy grumbled bitingly under his breath, eyes still upon the somber youth slumped in the sterile chair. 

"Da please-" the child was whimpering upon the sofa, still crying into his hat, “Please it was just a game…” 

The child's father was as resolute and grave as ever, the only response to the child’s cry another faint warbling scream that drifted off into a sob. 

John swallowed, unsure of what to do next or where to go. Should they stay and wait in the lobby? How long could they feasibly get away with that without the receptionist getting suspicious? Should they just simply ask her who was scheduled for an appointment today-? But she wouldn't give that sort of information over… unless they forced her. John raised an eyebrow at Jimmy, glancing back and forth from Jimmy to the receptionist. 

_We could take her._ John thought to himself _But we'd never make it out of this building. The cops would be quick- and I can’t afford to get in any more trouble with the law._

He was just on the verge of pulling everyone outside to simply wait for Thomas on the front step whenever he should choose to appear when a sudden pair of footsteps upon wood heralded the approach of men from the inner hallway. For a minute there was only hushed voices, a conversation nob doubt carrying on from another room as the men drew closer and closer.

Shadows appeared at the edge of the hallway, then two men walked into the room. One was a doctor, pleased and smiling as he continued on his conversation. The other was a young man Thomas’ age, shaking and hunched as he held his jacket to his chest and leaned upon the doctor for support. Dark haired, and wild eyed, the man could have passed for Thomas’ twin if he were not so frightened and shaken. 

But then the man spoke, and John’s heart dropped into his stomach at the familiar nasal voice. 

“But- what if something happens an’ I can’t stop it?”   
It was Thomas. 

Shaking so violently he might still be suffering electrocution, Thomas complexion was pale and sweaty. His posture hunched, he clutched his jacket in his arms as a child might a pillow at bedtime- he could have keeled right over if it weren’t for the doctor who walked beside him in a rather telling white coat and well trimmed mustache and beard. He looked down on Thomas with queer brotherly affection, as if the pair of them were chums- his steely eyes twinkled behind wire rimmed glasses. Thomas was dazed, stumbling, unaware of where he was as he leaned into the doctor’s touch to remain standing. 

“You’re going about this the right way.” The doctor assured Thomas. John’s blood ran cold at the warmth in his voice. The way he helped Thomas along as if he were a friend, “You’re doing everything absolutely correct- and I’m glad you came back to me. You cut this off before it became a full blown problem, and that’s what’s important. You’re getting much better at recognizing signs of relapse. A fine step!” 

“Sh-Should I come back?” Thomas mumbled in a shaky whisper. The doctor contemplated it for a moment as Thomas continued to clutch feebly at his jacket in his arms.

The group of them were flabbergasted, each too shocked at the sight before them to put a stop to it. 

“Only if you have another moment of temptation- and I don’t think you will.” the doctor said, “The young lady in question sounds quite lovely.” 

“She is.” Thomas voice was hoarse as if he’d been screaming, as if his vocal chords were damaged and torn. 

“Then there you go.” The doctor had a package in hand, a kit encased in red leather that he pressed into Thomas weakened hands so that Thomas momentarily fumbled with his coat as he took it, “Take these injections if you have a moment of weakness, they’ll help buy you some time and clarity of mind. The pills should help more too, they’re a higher dosage, and will keep you on your chosen path.” 

Thomas looked warily from the doctor to the box, for the first time his weary eyes showing the slightest hints of distrust. 

“Th’last time I was given an injection it were unsterilized saline.” 

“Yes, that was rather awful, wasn’t it?” the doctor tutted as if he too had taken an injection and suffered a similar abscess. John wanted to break his face in for the hypocrisy of it all. “Not to worry, this is a new solution from a new vender. We quit our dealings with the prior man some time ago- imagine our poor patients all being shafted. It was quite distressing for my office I can tell you.” The doctor smiled, looking eager to get off the topic of his shitty drugs, “I’m very proud of you Courtenay. You’re one of our most dedicated patients, and see how the effort is paying off!” 

_Courtenay,_ John thought with a stab of guilt. _Of course Thomas didn’t use his own name. He used the name of the Lieutenant he knew in the war._

The doctor suddenly seemed to register there were three people gawping in his sitting room who were obviously not patients waiting to be seen. Jimmy was far from the image of a fearful youth in his shaking rage- Baxter looked ready to make good on her earlier promise and set the whole place ablaze with her glare alone. John didn’t know who he should make to grab first in the event of a fight. Perhaps he should just let the pair of them have at it and tear the doctor down to size. 

_Doctor_ , John thought viciously, _You're no doctor at all._

John had no way of knowing what he looked like, but he had a feeling ‘disturbed’ would best label his expression. 

“Can I help you?” The doctor spoke up, that same pleasant smile in place. Thomas had turned in the doctor’s grip, his hand slipping from Thomas’ shoulder as Thomas made to stumble along the edge of the wall towards the receptionist’s desk. His eyes traveled across the room, no doubt looking for a safe place to perch as he gathered his bearings- but when they found John, Baxter, and Jimmy in the doorway they stopped dead. 

Thomas went white. 

The fear, the utter terror in his face was indisputable as he realized who was in the entryway, as he registered what it must mean for both Baxter and John to be there- and Jimmy in their company. Jimmy was the damning blow, the horrific understanding that Jimmy must now be aware of what Thomas was doing in this office- of what he’d been up to for weeks. John absolutely detested himself in that moment, despised that he’d done such a thing to Thomas who was an incredibly private man and put Jimmy on a pedestal high above the rest of the world- put a halo on Jimmy’s head and wings on his back so that Thomas’ problems were like dirt for Jimmy’s hands to consider touching. 

_But it had to be done,_ John reasoned. _Jimmy had to know. Jimmy is the only one who can fix this._

Still. That didn’t make it any less difficult to witness. 

“Yes. You can help us.” Baxter sprang from John’s side, moving with the speed of a woman half her age as she grabbed Thomas from where he stood hunched upon the receptionist’s desk to pull him away from the doctor— as if the man were made of poisonous gasses deadly to be inhaled. “You can stay away from my brother.” 

The doctor seemed quite miffed at Baxter’s words, but John was far from satisfied as Baxter guided Thomas towards the door. He grabbed the red leather kit in Thomas’ weak hands and without a word of explanation he chucked it hard at the doctor so that he had to stumble to catch it in his hands with a slight _‘oomph!’_ of outrage. 

“And you can keep your poison to yourself.” John snapped, following Baxter out the door. Jimmy was the only one left in the office besides the original three visitors who were now all gaping at John and Baxter’s retreating backs. Between them, Thomas could hardly stand. 

“Did- did you shock him?" Jimmy demanded of the doctor. 

By this point, the doctor had lost his patience: “I should hardly see why a patient’s private medical sessions have anything to do with you-!” 

“You did, didn’t you-“ Jimmy was growing enraged, his voice gravely as he cut across whatever excuse the doctor was about to give, “You ever touch him again, I'll kill you!” 

And John was certain Jimmy meant it. 

“Jimmy, come on!” John snapped, abandoning Baxter at the door to grab Jimmy hard by the elbow and yank him back before he could do any more damage. "He's not worth it.” 

The four of them stumbled out onto the cold sidewalk, mindless to the light snow that had begun to fall onto the muddy street as they staggered to and fro. Thomas could barely walk, was tripping even as he clung to Baxter’s waif frame, and though he drew in lungfuls of crisp clean air it was like he was drowning. Like he was floundering before their very eyes. 

Jimmy jerked out of John's grip, unloading the leather satchel from his arm for John to take so that he could grab Thomas under the arm and pull him off of Baxter. Baxter grabbed Thomas’ jacket from his fingers even as it slipped to nearly fall onto the muddy pavement, draping it over her arm to put a hesitant hand onto Thomas’ back. 

“Back to the ally-“ John ordered, “Get off the street.” 

He didn’t trust that doctor not to call the police. 

The four of them staggered and stumbled, Jimmy holding Thomas tight in his grip around the waist as they trudged one step after another back towards the same little grotto in which John and Baxter had first confided in Jimmy. The farther they walked, the weaker Thomas got, and by the time they reached the mouth of the ally Thomas was panting onto Jimmy’s shoulder with sweat dripping down his neck despite having no jacket in snowy weather. They pressed into the grotto, Thomas and Jimmy going first, and when they reached the end Jimmy hurriedly pushed Thomas onto an upended crate to serve as a makeshift chair so that Thomas could get a clear breath. Without his jacket to hide his front, and no longer attached to Jimmy’s side, Thomas’ chest was suddenly visible for all to see. Thick patches of blood were seeping through his shirt and vest, staining his clothes in long rivulets; Baxter fell upon Thomas at once, throwing his jacket around his slumped shoulders as she wiped the sweat from his face with her gloved hand. 

“What did they do to you?!" Baxter demanded in a fright. Jimmy yanked off his newsboy cap to huff a breath and wipe at his forehead; John’s mind was spinning with possibilities. 

They needed to get off the street, get to a hospital, and get back to Downton. John just couldn’t foresee a logical time flow for all of it- if they should rush to a hospital first or get Thomas to a bed where he could lay down in private- or if they should forgo a doctor and a train altogether to get right back on the train for Yorkshire. 

“You know wha’ they did to me.” Thomas mumbled, eyes closed as he sucked in one breath after another. He was close to fainting. 

“Are you hurt?” Jimmy abandoned his newsboy cap atop the same crate he'd punched a hole in earlier to stoop before Thomas, reaching out for his bloody vest front. 

“Why are you here?" Thomas demanded, and there was fear in his voice; he kept his eyes pinched shut. 

“You know why.” Jimmy replied, as if the answer should be the most obvious thing in the world. But these words just seemed to infuriate Thomas so that he shouted “Don’t you dare!” in return. His emotions were spinning out of control, the grief showing on his face as he jerked back from Baxter’s tending hands. 

“And I’m not your brother, either-!” Thomas yelped. 

“You’re close enough.” Baxter admonished him though there was no anger in her voice. She was reaching for his blood-soaked vest, as if making to pull the buttons free if Thomas would only let her. For a man who’d clearly just had the shit shocked out of him, Thomas was putting up an excellent (if feeble) fight. "Where are you bleeding from?" 

"All over-" Thomas mumbled. 

“Did they cut you?” Baxter demanded, her voice hitching. 

“Burns.” Thomas’ mouth was clumsy with words, “Shocks.” 

Baxter looked up and caught John's eye- she was clearly frightened now. 

"We have to get him to a hospital.” Baxter begged. 

“We have to get out of here!” John reprimanded her, “That doctor might call the police after Jimmy threatened him-“ he shot Jimmy a bitter look as Jimmy continued to hold Thomas about the shoulders in a protective embrace. Sitting upon the crate, Thomas could comfortably rest his head upon Jimmy's midriff and did so no without a care as to who saw. “If we hurry we can catch the next train back to Yorkshire. Dr. Clarkson can take care of him there." 

“I don't think he _can_ hurry," Baxter gestured to Thomas’ bloody vest. 

"He can barely walk!" Jimmy admonished the pair of them, bringing a hand up to hold Thomas' shaking frame still. Thomas was mumbling something into Jimmy’s blue vest, though no one could clearly tell what it was. 

“Then let’s get a cab, and we’ll wait it out at the station." John urged, "There's a tea room, we can take shelter there-" 

“If we walk into that station with him bleeding like a stuck pig, the station master will call the police. You know it.” Baxter had truth in her words; they needed to get Thomas somewhere private to clean up the evidence before the boarded a train. 

The sooner the better. Thomas was on the verge of having an aneurism. 

“Come on.” John urged, reaching forward to grab Thomas' jacket more firmly about his wiry frame so that Baxter could shove his arms through their respective holes. “Where did you sleep last night?” 

“Fountain Inn-" Thomas mumbled, his voice slightly muffled by Jimmy's vest as Jimmy held him up, “Two streets east. Blue door.” 

“Then let's go there and you can change.” John said, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a note for Baxter to take. 

“Head out to High Holborn and flag a taxi.” John said. Baxter left at once, running out of the ally while clutching her mauve hat tight to her head. 

“Taxi… two streets?” Thomas was mumbling, clearly miffed at John’s flippancy. 

“I’d take it for one street if it kept you off your feet. Up you get.” John buttoned Thomas’ jacket closed, praying to god it would hide the blood till they got him under cover, and helped Jimmy to take him under the arms if only to pull him onto his feet. Thomas staggered and stumbled, nearly falling over as Jimmy grabbed him hard about the waist again and steered him towards the mouth of their secluded grotto. 

Thomas was blind now, going by faith alone on their direction with his eyes closed and his face buried in the crook of Jimmy’s neck as they staggered forward one shaky foot at a time. John knew exactly what Thomas was doing, had done it himself with Anna upon being chucked out of the Grantham Arms onto his bad leg. 

It put every facade Thomas had built with Daisy to shame, the way he held onto Jimmy as if his life depended upon it. 

_And it does,_ John thought, _It surely does._

They reached high Holborn where Baxter had managed to stop a taxi; she was holding its door open and gesturing feverishly for them to join her as fast as they could. The driver was a chubby man with an enormous mustache- he regarded Thomas with a quirk of a bushy eyebrow. 

It took everything they had to get Thomas up into the cab, and when he finally did collapse onto leather seat inside he promptly fainted with his head propped against the far door. The driver said nothing but looked distinctly concerned as John, Jimmy, and Baxter all climbed inside. John was the last up and shut the door as he went. 

Sure enough, the Fountain Inn wasn’t far from High Holborn and sported a blue door just as Thomas had said. It was a quiet venue, with neat white lattice and an old swinging sign that looked ready to fall off its rusty hook. John once again felt like a bastard for waking Thomas if only to pull him from the cab (Thomas moaned and mumbled something unintelligible as he leaned into Jimmy once more), and by the time they'd made it to the door John and Jimmy were practically holding Thomas up all by themselves. Baxter held the door for them, ushering them inside, and John was relieved to find the lobby of the hotel was empty save for the innkeeper that sat behind a cramped bar polishing its waxy counter. 

The man was shocked to see Thomas in such a state; clearly they knew one another. 

“Mr. Barrow!” The innkeeper called out to Thomas, but Thomas did reply save for a sluggish moan. 

“He’ll be leaving for the five o’clock train.” John informed the innkeeper as he stole a glance at the clock above the bar. It was 1:45 in the afternoon- a perfect amount of time to get the job done. Thomas could take a nap, clean up, and with luck be able to pull off the facade of a normal man on the train ride back home. With luck no one would even notice he was bleeding. “What room is he in?” 

“Room C, just straight down the hall." The innkeeper pointed to a door off the bar, “I’ll send down some tea, shall I?" 

“Thank you, that's very kind of you.” Baxter said. Together the three of them helped to heave Thomas down the darkened hallway, passing by rooms A and B before arriving at C on their left. Baxter opened it and let them all inside to a cramped room holding a solitary bed, desk, chair, and table. With a quilted coverlet and a picture of the sea hanging on the wall it was bare but comfortable; John and Jimmy promptly helped Thomas to collapse onto the bed where he lay in a fitful state with his legs hanging off. 

Propriety be damned, John and Jimmy moved Thomas’ legs to lay upon the bed, still clad in dirty shoes and trousers. 

Baxter had taken off her hat, laying it on the desk where Thomas’ closed valise sat on its side. She pushed past Jimmy, perching on the side of the bed to reach for Thomas’ vest. He was still struggling, hands sluggish and soft as he attempted to bat her fingers away. She just kept coming back, kept going for his buttons till he relented and let her open his vest. 

“Where are you hurt?” Baxter asked as she peeled his vest back to reveal his shirt soaked in blood beneath. “Show me where.” 

“Neh-“ Was Thomas' only reply, hardly a body part that could be identified. Just as Baxter made to reach for the collar of his shirt, the door opened to reveal a maid carrying a tray of tea. She stopped and stared, eyes going wide as she regarded Thomas collapsed upon his bed in a bloody state. The girl was hardly twenty years old- she’d probably never seen a bleeding man in her life. 

“I’ll take that." John reached out at once, cane swinging upon his arm as he relieved the tea tray from the maid’s slackening grip. He set the tray upon the desk, giving the maid a final smile. 

Leave, John wanted to bark. Instead he just gave her a softened glare. 

The maid curtsied, startled as she turned and fled back through the door with her skirts swishing about her. John closed the door as she went, and locked it for good measure so as to ensure their privacy. Baxter was slightly sheepish upon the bed, with Jimmy glaring just over her shoulder. 

“Think we scared her enough?" John offered up for the salvation of a laugh. Neither Jimmy nor Baxter were content to join him in his humor. John threw up a hand, giving it up for lost. Perhaps now wasn't the time for a joke. 

Still. Laugh so you don't cry. 

Thomas was shifting on the bed, trying to sit up or get out or moan or simply just struggle for the sake of struggling ( _Oh, Thomas…_ John could not help but think with slight fondness). Baxter, pouring over him, kept looking over her trembling shoulder at John as if to ask him what to do, as if hoping he might take over and offer her some kind of guidance but what guidance could John give? He’d been to war; so had Thomas. Both of them understood what if felt like to be in pain with no hope for morphine or help. Baxter, on the other hand, had no experience with that sort of trauma. This whole scenario was clearly too much for Baxter to handle. 

John jerked his thumb, and Baxter got up off of the bed, stumbling a little upon her feet as she backed up to nearly run over Jimmy who was by Thomas’ headboard and keeping a hand pressed to Thomas’ forehead as if to check for fever. Thomas kept twitching, a short sharp shock like a leftover tremor from the electrotherapy. Every time he jumped, Baxter hitched a breath; to keep from seeing it Baxter turned to fetch water in a shallow porcelain basin. Perching his cane precariously on the edge of the beside table, John reached out to begin unbuttoning Thomas’ shirt. The buttons were sticky, coated brown with drying blood and tightening in their fabric holds so that despite being a practiced valet John had to struggle to get the shirt to obey. 

_“Th'fuck'r'ye'doin'?"_ Thomas slurred, cracking one bleary bloodshot eye open to see John struggling with his buttons. 

“Oh shuttup.” John smiled at Thomas, unable to help with another joke; this had been what had got him through the war. An ability to make others laugh under stress. “Maybe I want to see you without a shirt on." 

“Help’yerself…” Thomas mumbled, closing his eyes again. John could not help but snort. 

“I’m happily married, Thomas.” John reminded him with a smile, “But I appreciate your willingness. Good to know I have choices." 

“That’s not funny." 

John looked up as he finished with the last button to find Jimmy glaring at him with such thunder that John was taken aback. One hand on Thomas’ forehead, one gripping the headboard in an iron hold, Jimmy looked ready to clock John in the face for his last comment. John sat back, unamused; Baxter brought over the basin with water, a hand towel over her arm. 

“It's just a joke, Jimmy." John said, careful to watch Jimmy’s thunderstruck face for any signs of offense. 

“Well it's not bloody funny.” Jimmy growled. 

_Jealous?_ John wondered, though he certainly did not say as much. 

John put Jimmy as far out of his mind as he could manage, instead focusing back on Thomas as Baxter steeped the hand towel in lukewarm water and wrung it out with well practiced hands. Folding back Thomas' vest, John steeled himself for what he knew was about to come as he took Thomas’ shirt in both hands. 

“Look away.” He ordered Baxter. 

“Go on." Baxter whispered, wrung out towel at the ready though her hands were shaking, "I can take it.” 

John watched her, noting how her fingers trembled. If she wanted to lie to herself, fine enough, that wasn’t his issue. She’d look away if she couldn’t take it, sure enough. For now, John had to focus on Thomas. 

John pulled back Thomas’s blood soaked shirt and winced at the sight that greeted him. 

It was obvious, once John could see the wounds, what had happened. Something had been strapped around Thomas chest in two broad strips, perhaps a metal band with a latch to keep him from struggling or getting away; the electric current had burned two harsh damaged strips so that Thomas’ skin was now blistered, torn, and bleeding profusely. The edges of the wound were charred, a dark ugly brown that was telling for the amount of heat and electricity these mad men had passed through him. 

_“Da’ please.”_ John could hear that little boy whispering as he cried to his apathetic father, _“Please can’t we go home? I promise I’ll never do it again.”_

John pursed his lips and shook his head. 

Jimmy had gone white, and though his hands did not shake like Baxter’s it was clear he was drained. He’d bowed his head to lay upon the headboard, cradled by the hand that gripped on- his brow was folded with anger and fear. John wondered what he’d do if someone had harmed Anna in this way- 

_But someone already has._ An ugly voice whispered in his head. John stilled, his heads still upon the edges of Thomas’ bloodied shirt. _And you did nothing; you were listening to music, remember._

John clenched Thomas' shirt, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, painful and ugly in its bleating. 

_Kill him, destroy, tear him limb from limb-_ his mind danced in a reel of pain and blood… but Greene was already dead and there was actual blood on his hands now. A sudden queer fondness took over him, filling him with a golden warmth as he realized that even in the depths of their prior grudge, Thomas would have never touched Anna in such a way. Would have never touched anyone in such a way. Thomas had been a thief and a liar, a massive pain in the ass whom John would have delighted to punch in the throat… but he’d never been a rapist. 

And he didn’t deserve this. 

“Don’t….bother…”Thomas was whispering, eyes closed but brow knit as a sweat formed on his face. “Stop…” 

Terrified, Baxter reached forward, unsure of where to put her hand towel or if to drop it at all- but if they were to get out of here and back to Yorkshire on a train then they were going to need Thomas cleaned up- it would have to be done. Baxter seemed to reach the same conclusion as John; she took a breath and laid the hand towel over Thomas’ wounds. 

Thomas cried out, his voice sharp and cutting, and it scared Baxter so badly that she backed up at once from the bed to hit the opposite wall with her hands clapped over her mouth. 

“I’m sorry!” She bleated; Thomas did not hear her, trembling violently. The hand towel upon Thomas’ chest was slowly seeping with red. 

“We have to get him to a hospital.” Baxter's voice shook with her fear, “We can’t handle this John- you know we can't handle this. We have to get him to Dr. Clarkson.” 

It was a show of her emotional state that she'd used his Christian name. John could remember how shocked he’d been when Thomas had used it in the boot room. His initial thought, as dumb as it had been, had been _“How on earth does he know my first name?”_

John pursed his lips. 

“Ha!” Thomas was shuddering with each breath his took, shaking violently as if from a great cold. “I’m not goin’ t’ Dr. Clarky.” 

John snorted at the name, bowing his head to cover his eyes with a hand sticky in dried blood. 

“M’- I can handle… meself." Thomas mumbled. 

“Do you have another shirt?” John asked to keep from laughing; still the edges of his lips quirked in a smile. 

“Yeah.” Thomas mumbled. “Numpty." 

“Good, because you’ve ruined this one." John declared, reaching into his vest to pull out a pen knife. He flicked it open, and without further ado began to cut Thomas shirt open at the sleeves. Thomas wouldn’t be able to bend his arms to pull of the shirt on his own. “Ms. Baxter, will you fetch the shirt?” 

Baxter stumbled over to the valise on the desk, her hands still shaking as she rummaged through it to pull out another shirt, but John noticed her pausing as she pulled out a book as well. It was marked with a black and white photograph, which Baxter pulled out to observe- and as she read the text upon the page she closed her eyes momentarily to take a few shaking breathes. 

She returned to the bed, sitting upon it next to Thomas’ feet. 

“His sister is his bookmark.” Baxter said, voice soft. John looked up, nearly finished tearing Thomas’ shirt free at both the arms, to see Baxter holding up the photograph of a young woman with a bow in her mounded hair. With her sharp cheek bones and proud nose, she could have been Thomas’ twin, eyes the same almond shape and mouth quirking in the slightest smile. John reached out and took the picture, careful not to damage it with his sticky fingertips, flipping it over onto the back to read _‘Margret Barrow, Stockport-1910’_. 

John offered it up to Jimmy; Jimmy did not even bother looking at it, still cradling his head upon the post of Thomas’ bed with his fingers drifting over Thomas’ forehead. 

John handed the picture back to Phyllis, who took it to lay it inside the book of poetry just where she’d found it. John caught a glimpse of the title ‘Enough Rope’ by Dorothy Parker. 

He cut free the last of Thomas’ shirt and pulled it loose with minimal tugging; now bare chested Thomas shuddered violently from the cold. John noted in the way one might note the shape and coloration of a tree that Thomas was lithe and pale, with an agile sort of grace that came from years of working under intense pressure in service. His sinewy arms, well crafted from Carson’s constant demands, were likewise burned upon the forearms in a band mark formation. Thomas must have been strapped to a chair, bound twice across the chest and once across each arm- it was a miracle his legs weren’t damaged too. 

“Give me the shirt." 

John looked up, surprised to find Jimmy with hands outstretched instead of on Thomas’ clammy forehead. He did not look at John, head still upon the post, but John handed him the torn shirt all the same. Jimmy jerked up from the headboard, snatching the basin full of lukewarm water from the beside table to take it over to teh desk where the unused teapot lay waiting upon its metal tray. Jimmy poured the steaming water into the basin so that steam suddenly wafted up; he put Thomas’ short into the basin, muddying the water with dried blood. John watched, noting absently that Baxter had taken up the hand towel to gently wash the edges of Thomas’ wounds. 

“What are you doing?” John asked Jimmy, curious. 

"Wrapping." Was all Jimmy said. His voice was tight and sharp; he sounded close to snapping if pressed. John took up Thomas’ book of poetry, flipping through it to keep from getting on Jimmy’s nerves. 

_Spoiled brat,_ John thought irritably, _This is all your fault anyways._

Margret Barrow's picture was placed next to a poem entitled _‘A Very Short Song’_ which suited John just fine. If it was short, it wouldn’t require much of his attention: 

_“Once, when I was young and true,  
Someone left me sad-  
Broke my brittle heart in two;   
And that is very bad._

 _Love is for unlucky folk,  
Love is but a curse.   
Once there was a heart I broke;   
And that, I think, is worse.”_

John opened his mouth, reading the poem over three more times, his original analysis for short attention spans flying out the window as he realized why Thomas might have taken such a liking to that poem. Between Jimmy Kent and Lieutenant Edward Courtenay, it seemed to fit Thomas’ situation perfectly. 

Jimmy had returned to the bed, shirt washed (though still stained slightest brown) and steaming in this hands. He took John’s pen knife from his lap, perching upon the bed close to Thomas face to begin tearing the shirt into strips. John watched him, noting that a muscle in Jimmy’s jaw was jumping from anger. 

Or was it anger at all. 

“You’re a damn nuisance you know that?” Jimmy muttered to Thomas. Thomas only smiled absently. “I was gonna go to Aberdeen today- they have this music store, and I wanted to get more sheet music but _no.”_ Jimmy sneered the word, eyes drifting down to Thomas upon the bed, "Instead I'm... watching you bleed.” He swallowed, glancing twice more at Thomas’ electric burns. Was it John’s wishful imagination or was Jimmy looking at Thomas’ naked chest with more than a healthy dose of intrigue? Jimmy was certainly taking his time, eyes roving over each plane of muscle as if he’d been bidden to memorize it. 

“My day has taken a shoddy turn.” Jimmy whispered. He turned back to Thomas shirt, tearing it into several more strips before pausing a second time to glance down at Thomas. Thomas kept trying to open his eyes, gray eyes flickering over Jimmy each time he did; John noticed Thomas’ right hand twitch fingers touching the taunt fabric at Jimmy’s knee. If Jimmy noticed it he said nothing, too enraptured with staring at Thomas. 

_There, in your eyes, I can see it._ John thought vindictively. 

“Thomas…”Jimmy whispered his name like a prayer, “What are you doing?” 

_Thank you merciful God,_ John wanted to proclaim to the heaven, _For gods sake let Jimmy fix this mess!_

“Gotta… get a… better life.” Thomas mumbled, fingers still twitching upon the side of Jimmy’s knee.

“Yeah, but you've never made excuses or apologies before.” Jimmy murmured, finished with ripping Thomas shirt to hand John back his pen knife. John took it without a word, refusing to speak lest he ruin the conversation. Jimmy selected a few shorter strips from the others, and reached down to take Thomas arm into his lap. Thomas hissed, but kept his teeth clamped down tight as Jimmy began to wrap his wound with the makeshift bandages. Jimmy swallowed, continuing on, “Why start now? What the hell prompted you to do this? This isn’t like you. You’re smarter than this…. better than this.” Jimmy whispered. 

But Thomas had fallen asleep, head nestled against Jimmy’s upper thigh and arm in his lap. 

_I suppose this is your version of heaven._ John thought with mild amusement at the peaceful expression upon Thomas’ face. 

Jimmy just stared at Thomas’ slumbering expression, pursing his finely carved lips to take a deep breath through his nose. He finished bandaging Thomas’ arm to set it down at his side, reaching across Thomas chest to pick up his other forearm. 

"Why did he do this?” Jimmy demanded, his question aimless in regards to intended recipient. 

“Because you left.” Baxter murmured, rising off the bed to wring out the bloodied hand towel in the murky basin. “All this started when you left. He couldn’t take the pain of it.” 

She returned to the bed, wash towel freshly damp to continue cleaning Thomas’ chest. 

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jimmy asked, but the nervous edge in his voice made it clear to John that Jimmy knew damn well what Baxter was talking about. 

John wouldn’t stand for it. Not when Thomas was courting Daisy Mason and sporting electric burns. 

“He loves you, Jimmy.” John said, and he made sure to look Jimmy firmly in the eye. Jimmy flinched, eye twitching and jaw jumping as he at once dropped his gaze to tug experimentally at the binding of Thomas’ arms. 

“Let’s not start that song and dance again.” Jimmy muttered under his breath. 

“It’s hardly a song and dance.” John snapped, his brain suddenly supplying him with the image of Thomas’ doing a routine on stage to the tune of _‘I’m Just Wild About Harry’._

John would have put good money on Thomas being an excellent singer. 

“Look,” Jimmy snapped right back, nerves tight and jangled from Thomas’ blood under his fingernails and the obvious wounds upon Thomas chest. “That’s over and down with, alright? We’re mates now. We’ve moved past that.” 

“Have you, really?” John couldn’t stand the ignorance of it all. He wished he could take Jimmy by the arms and just shake him till all the marbles in his daft head rattled loose. Because we just pulled him out of a conversion therapy clinic!” 

“I never said I knew _why_ he did it!” Jimmy snarled, throwing his hands up in a ‘don’t shoot’ method, but it was open season and John had a shotgun. 

“You don’t have to say it, we _know_ why he did it. He did it because of you!” 

Jimmy paled, lights turned white as he glanced down at Thomas’ sleeping face. 

“Because you were were gone, and his heart was breaking-“ John wondered if Jimmy was hearing his words now, or if Jimmy had already stopped listening. Jimmy was still staring at Thomas, perhaps taking in the deep bags underneath Thomas’ almond eyes, or the way his black hair fell into his eyes when it wasn’t slicked back with Brilliantine. 

“Don’t you start that rubbish again." Jimmy mumbled, but he was weakening with emotion creeping into his voice. 

John seethed, “Start that-? Jimmy it never _stopped!”_ John’s temper popped, his voice momentarily rising, “Look at him!” 

“I can see him.” 

“Yes, but are you looking at him?” 

“Course I’m looking at him, I’m starin’ at him aren’t I?" 

“Yes but are you really taking it all in?” 

“What are you going on about?” 

"Look at him, Jimmy-!” 

_“I AM!"_

 

Jimmy Kent’s temper was an odd thing; when he’d been at the Abbey and bickering on the daily with Alfred Nugent Thomas had kept him from popping with a well placed word or a gentle eye that had soothed the beast before it ever had a chance to hunger. 

_“Hush your temper.”_ John had heard Thomas murmur once at the servant’s table- Jimmy had been fuming in an arm chair by the fire with Thomas right behind him, arms draped over the top of the arm chair to look down upon Jimmy with such love and devotion that they’d appeared a married couple, _“Don't you start, now."_

He’d given Jimmy a cigarette; Jimmy had taken it to smoke and sulk. Thomas had had him laughing by the end of the night, playing a duet with him on the piano just before Carson called for light’s out. 

Now, with Thomas sleeping and wounded, Jimmy was without release and fuming. He’d leapt right of the bed, shucking the unused bandages of Thomas shirt off of his lap to fall upon the floor and mattress like oddly shaped leaves of a withering tree. Jimmy’s handsome face was flushed bright pink, his blue eyes blazing as he glared at John. His nostrils flared with each huffing breath he took. He was practically shaking in his contempt. 

If Jimmy hadn’t been a shrimp, John might have been slightly worried. As it stood, Jimmy could probably fight ten little girls (eleven on a good day), and certainly did not possess Thomas’ arm muscles. John quirked an eyebrow. 

“This is bloody ridiculous.” Jimmy seethed, “I’m going to get something for those burns.” 

And with that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he went. 

Baxter looked at John, unsure of what to do or say. 

“… I’m going to call the Abbey. And Dr. Clarkson.” John grumbled, rising up from the bed to take his cane from the bedside table. “Keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty.” 

Baxter pursed her lips, saying nothing as she resumed cleaning the blood from Thomas’ chest. John hobbled out the door, closing the door behind his as gently as he dared, feeling akin to shutting the door on an infirmary ward as he made his way up the hall. 

Jimmy was already gone. 

~*~

When Thomas woke, he was shirtless in an empty room. His suitcase was repacked, a spare shirt laying on the bed beside him as of yet untouched, and for some reason his forearms were bound in torn fragments of a dirty shirt. 

_Wee, this is fun-_ he thought. 

He closed his eyes, sliding back into the comfortable warmth of the bed beneath him- despite being shirtless he was far from cold. He idly wondered how he’d managed to get back to his room after an intense round of shock therapy- but then he remembered Jimmy’s face. 

He whimpered. 

No, no, no- it simply wasn’t fair! Why when he was always at his weakest, at his lowest, did Jimmy have to appear? Why couldn’t Jimmy show up when Thomas felt strong and sure of himself? Why did Jimmy have to show up when he was hiding in a park or getting the shit shocked out of him? Why did Jimmy have to have such beautiful hair and golden skin- why couldn't he be some ugly hideous pale little thing? 

_Because then he’d look like you-_ a nasty voice chimed in. 

John Bates had likewise seen him with his shirt off, and he was pretty certain Phyllis now knew he read flowery flapper poetry. 

_Well laddo, this day has gone to shit,_ he thought with idle despair. Not the kind of despair that makes you want to jump into the first river you see- just the kind of despair that allows you to feel contentment laying on the floor for hours. Alone. In the dark. 

He heard a door open but kept his eyes closed. 

_Let’s play a game where I pretend to be asleep._ Thomas decided, _But what if it’s Jimmy and I’m missing out on looking at him? That’ll never do._

So Thomas opened one bleary eye and was rewarded with the sight of Jimmy clutching a jar in his hand. 

Was there such a sight as beautiful as this? Thomas could not find a comparison- the entire Wallace Collection could burn for the beauty found in one glimpse of Jimmy Kent. 

His dark newscap set against his beautiful blonde curls- his blue vest and tapered pants- the leather satchel over his shoulder and the wry grin upon his face… everything about him was symbolic to Thomas. An image of what heaven could be if only heaven just _tried._

But it was more than that. 

Jimmy Kent was indeed beautiful, and Thomas already knew him to be charming, poised, well read, and street wise. Everything he found admirable in another human being. Yet all these things were a blip in time, a mere hiccup of the universe compared to the peace he found within Jimmy’s soul and mind. The ability that Jimmy had to simply make him feel “not-alone”. When Jimmy was near, so to was Thomas’ heart. When Jimmy closed his eyes, Thomas went to sleep. When Jimmy found a joke funny, Thomas’ lips formed a laugh. When Jimmy touched his breast to feel his heart, it was Thomas’ hand upon his chest. 

“…Hi.” Jimmy said after a moment, a hesitant smile blooming across his face. Thomas’ lips instinctively twitched. 

Ah, that beautiful voice. That beautiful, lovely voice.   
Thomas smiled in spite of himself, his brain numb but his body on fire. 

“Hi.” Thomas mumbled back. 

_Hi, hi, hi-_ his brain chanted. 

“How d’you feel?” Jimmy asked, unscrewing the lid of the weird little jar in his hands. The smell of menthol filled Thomas’ nostrils- The light cast from his beside lamp made Jimmy’s hair look like it was on fire. 

_What a delightful notion,_ his brain chittered. 

“M’fine.” Thomas said, and it was quite an accurate statement. He was always fine when he was looking at Jimmy. 

_You are the world, the world is you; you are the sky and sea I’m sandwiched between._

“You’re a crummy liar.” Jimmy warned him.   
He was touching Thomas’ chest, stroking his wounds. The sting of menthol was nothing compared to the burn of his fingertips- the warm melding heat that rendered Thomas into goop. 

_Ah that hits the spot,_ Thomas’ brain mumbled with buttery glee, _Just keep strokin’ me chest and I’ll die a happy man._

The menthol was waking him up, making him feel oddly clear in the head- or perhaps it was just Jimmy’s touch that woke him- that reminded him of all there was to see and do in the world. 

“Are you alright?” Jimmy asked, sounding none too sure- he paused in his attentions, fetching more cream from his little brown jar. Thomas blinked blearily in the light, trying to see Jimmy more clearly- the fuzzy soup of his brain made it difficult to understand. 

“M’fine.” Thomas mumbled again, “Go ‘bout your business.” 

“I can’t help it.” Jimmy admitted, “I’ve never seen you like this.” He paused again, this time giving Thomas a scrutinizing look that bordered on irritation, “The hell are you thinking carrying on with Daisy?” 

Thomas smiled in spite of himself. 

_Let's not talk about Daisy,_ he wanted to say, _Let's talk about that blue vest you’re wearing. Goodness you look swell! Do a little turn for me, let me see how cute you are._

“M’just-“ he swallowed thickly around a cotton tongue, “Livin’ me life. Life is good.” 

_Life is good because you’re wearing that cute blue vest._

“Oh is it.” Jimmy grumbled, still quite unconvinced, “Looks like shit t’me, but I’ll take your word for it.” 

His fingers stroked Thomas’ chest, covering each burn wound with care. Thomas struggled between the yearning to close his eyes and he eagerness to keep looking at Jimmy, keep watching him till all the world faded away. 

_In this moment, you are mine._ Thomas thought with blissful ignorance; a mixture of menthol, golden touches, and fading electrocution, _In this moment, you are mine, and when I am old and gray I will remember you clearly in this golden light as if I am viewing it still._

Jimmy smiled at him, his blue eyes turning the lightest shade of cerulean in the light.   
Thomas smiled back, admiring that lovely shade. 

_You are the sea and sky,_ he thought, _and I am the man drifting between you._

“M’ glad t’see you.” Jimmy whispered. “Even so.” 

“Mmm.” Thomas could only reply. “I see you everyday.” 

“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Jimmy kept on smiling. 

_What a blessing_ , Thomas thought, _What a gift._

“Purple.” Was all Thomas could say as Jimmy coated his burns in a menthol paste. “Yer in the color purple- like yer eyes.” 

“Sure.” Jimmy continued to spread the paste with care, “You’re a right numpty, you know that?” 

“Tah.” Thomas smiled. Jimmy snorted in spite of himself. 

 

It might have gone on forever, or only for a few moments. Thomas was unsure. All he knew was that Jimmy was touching him, stroking him, soothing him with all the tender caress that Thomas had ever desired and he was in utter heaven. Suddenly the past weeks with Daisy felt like a punishment, a toiling labor for the rich reward of being so near Jimmy. Of feeling Jimmy tend to him with such sweet care. But like all good things in Thomas’ life, whether it was his father’s fleeting love or his mother’s laughter, the scene was brought to an abrupt and cold halt by the sound of the door opening and the arrival of John Bates back in the room. 

At once Jimmy jerked his hand away from Thomas’ chest as if burned, quickly wiping his fingers upon a torn strip of Thomas’ bloody shirt to clear them of menthol paste. 

"Don't stop on my account.” Bates said; Thomas watched through bleary eyes as he retook his seat on the chair beside Thomas’ bed. Jimmy bristled, his expression shifting from one of private warmth to instant dislike as he regarded Bates like a particularly distempered wolf. 

"Stop what?" Jimmy grumbled, recapping the burn cream and setting the soiled rag of Thomas’ abused shirt beside it. Thomas watched Jimmy enraptured, every detail and nuance of his being filling Thomas up like hot, sweet, porridge. Like a starving man he lapped it all, desperate for the curve of Jimmy’s neck, the sweet hollow of this collar bone- the way his fingers danced nervously along his thighs as he beat out an unknown rhythm and avoided Bates’ hardened gaze. 

If Thomas had had the strength, he would have forced Bates off of Jimmy, made Bates look away- those angry eyes were not worthy to scald Jimmy's golden skin. Jimmy caught Thomas’ gaze and momentarily held it, suddenly enraptured despite their company. Thomas wondered what Jimmy saw in his gaze, what held his attention so steadily. 

Bates watched the entire exchange with a sour temper, his patience thoroughly spent. 

“Jimmy, you have a serious problem with expressing your emotions." Bates grumbled. Jimmy instantly looked away from Thomas. 

“God you're starting to sound as soppy as Alfred-" Jimmy sneered, rolling his eyes. They could have been back at the servant’s table, what felt like a hundred years ago before the conversion therapy and Thomas’ pseudo courtship of Daisy. 

Bates was far from impressed, eyes flickering to Jimmy's fingers- he noted the wild beat they tapped upon his thigh. 

“Is it soppy to express emotion?” Bates questioned. 

“You know what I mean.” Jimmy shot back, clearly eager for this conversation to hurry up and finish. Bates, however, had a knack for drawing out excruciating awkwardness as long as possible. 

“No I don't." Bates refused to play along, Jimmy flushed with clear irritation, “And I don’t think you mean it either-“ 

“Quit tryin' to dissect me brain!” Jimmy snapped, head whipping around to glare ruefully at Bates; Bates didn’t even flinch, “He’s just a mate, alright?” 

Thomas swallowed, a heavy burn beginning to build up in his throat and behind his eyes. 

_Yes, I know you’re just my mate._ Thomas’ brain whimpered, _But please, don't leave me so soon. Stay with me a while._

Bates caught Thomas' eye, and in that moment, Thomas’ pain was so clear that he knew he could not hide it. Could not shelter it behind the concept of electric burns or fatigue from therapy. Bates would know how Jimmy’s words scorned and jaded him- and it infuriated Thomas to no end. 

_This is not for you to see._ Thomas thought bitterly, _Go away! This is not for you to see!_

But Bates did not go away. He watched, and he waited. 

“You're so wrapped up in repression even I feel sorry for you.” Bates growled; Jimmy flushed an angry crimson, his cheeks turning scarlet as he instantly jerked off the bed and away from Thomas. An unbidden sound slipped past Thomas’ lips, a weak pathetic thing that begged Jimmy to return- but Jimmy wasn’t listening. He was halfway across the cramped bedroom, lingering by the door as if he thought to leave. 

_No!_ Thomas cried out in his head, _No please, stay._

“Like I need sympathy from a man who can barely walk.” Jimmy sneered, flinging the insult out with practiced ease. Bates didn’t bat an eyelash, rising up from the chair to lean heavily upon his cane with an insulted snort. 

“Barely walk indeed-" Bates’ temper was shortening with every word, “I don’t need to trot like a pony to bring your arse back to reality- I can kick it all the same from here!” 

“I’d like to see you try, old man!” Jimmy was cocky in his recovery, determined to win every argument. 

_How I love you so,_ Thomas wanted to say. He was smiling in spite of himself, close to laughing. 

“Old, am I?” Bates demanded with a sneer- but this fact was hardly up for discussion. Bates was not a spring chicken, “I may not be in my prime like you or Thomas, but at least I’m in touch with my heart. At least I can look the woman I love in the eye and tell her as much. Can you say the same, Jimmy?" 

“Sure I can!” Jimmy flushed with newfound pride, ever one to display his masculinity if he got the chance. He crossed his arms over his chest, his grin malicious as he taunted Bates from the door. 

“Then say it to him!” Bates gestured with an angry finger to Thomas. For one moment, one infinitesimally tiny moment, Thomas' clobbered brain hoped that Jimmy might say it. That Jimmy might shout out _“I love him, alright?!”_ For all the world to hear. 

But then Jimmy railed against John Bates, and Thomas' whole world came crashing down. 

“I don’t love him!” Jimmy seemed downright insulted by the very idea, sneering the retort and regarding Bates as if he were a lunatic, “I'm not some _bloody nancy lavender chit!”_

An ugly silence rang out in the room.   
_Oh,_ Thomas thought mildly, _That hurt._

But it seemed he’d accidentally said it out loud, for both John and Jimmy were looking at him in terrible expressions of guilt. John scratched the back of his head with his free hand, leaning heavily upon his cane and looking at the floor to avoid glaring at Jimmy or wincing at Thomas. Jimmy gaped, a fish without air as he floundered for something to say to salvage the situation. 

"I just-“ 

Jimmy's voice was suddenly weak, all the hot air deflating from his as he realized the ugliness of his words. Thomas swallowed around the sizable knot in his throat. When he looked back to Jimmy, he found him wringing his newscap in his hands. 

“S'fine Jim." Thomas managed to slur, his voice throaty and thick, “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

Jimmy made a tiny blurb of noise, a weak little sound that had no real meaning or value besides that it might have been a cross between an apology and a thank you. Jimmy looked down at the floor too, still twisting his newscap feverishly in his hands. 

The door sprang open, nearly smacking Jimmy in the face as he leapt back out of the way of Phyllis who'd returned with a tray full of biscuits and tea (the old tray had been given up for medical intents). She regarded Jimmy and John with a wary sort of air, noting Thomas' jar of menthol salve upon the beside table and the way that Jimmy looked horribly guilty like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. 

“… Is everything alright?” Phyllis asked. Jimmy seemed to spring to life, coughing rapidly into a balled fist as he hoisted his satchel a little higher upon his shoulder and made to leave. 

_No!_ Thomas’ brain wailed, _No please, don’t go!_

 

"Everything's fine." Jimmy assured her, despite how John glared at him over Phyllis' shoulder, "But I'd best take my leave." 

"Must you leave?" Phyllis asked, saddened as she sat down the tray of biscuits and tea, "We could use a helping hand-!" 

"I think you've got it under control." Jimmy said, but he tipped his hat to her all the same as he turned for the door. He'd not taken one step before John threw out a barb- perhaps some desperate last minute attempt to keep Jimmy where he was. 

“If you can’t be honest with him, you don’t deserve his love.” John snapped. 

Jimmy turned on his heel, and the look he gave John upon facing him again was so murderous that despite being a good half foot shorter than John and certainly a hundred pounds lighter, he looked ready to clock John in the neck. 

Hard. 

But even as Jimmy opened his mouth, ready to sling an insult or god knows what, his roving blue eyes fell upon Thomas still cradled on the bed- shirtless and pale, hideous in his bloody bandages and menthol covered burns. Jimmy gaped, mouth hanging open, and finally abandoned John altogether after a moment of somber reflection to instead look to Thomas for validation. 

“You’re me best mate.” Jimmy said, and his tone was so lovely and soft that it seemed ot lay over Thomas like a well worn blanket, “You kow that right?” 

“…O’course." Thomas whispered, for how could he not? Yes, he was Jimmy's best mate. He was Jimmy's everything. His confidant, his supporter, his partner-in-crime and living shadow… all with an air of gladness that made him feel rich with love. 

Jimmy nodded, and turned to go. 

“W-wait a minute.” Thomas blurted out, “Where are you going?” 

“Home.” Jimmy shrugged, “Or Aberdeen. I don’t know. Away from here.” 

He was going to leave again, and god only knows when Thomas would see him next. He was going to leave again, and Thomas was going to be alone, with burns and Daisy and menthol creme filling his nose while Anna grew strawberries in her garden and every eggplant that passed him by made him tear up. He was going to leave again and Thomas did not know if he would be able to survive it; if he wouldn't just vanish off the face of the earth before Jimmy even realized that something was terribly askew. And he wondered, in that moment, what it would be like for the existence of the earth if Thomas died without Jimmy knowing just how much Thomas loved him- 

“W-STOP!” 

The words ejected from Thomas’ mouth like bird pellet from a shot gun, flying across the room to halt Jimmy in his tracks for a second time. Jimmy looked around, surprised to be yelled at by Thomas of all people, and suddenly Thomas was the one floundering for words as he started one sentence only to stop and try out another, his brain throwing out phrases like a fisherman might chum bait. 

“Please don’t go- please- I…” Thomas fumbled over the words, eyes never leaving Jimmy’s face. 

_I don’t want anything bad to happen.  
I have to be near you.   
I need you.  
I love you._

But Jimmy just looked slightly alarmed now, as if Thomas were a rambling lunatic (which he supposed he was). The words fell dead in Thomas’ throat, unspoken for how they hung in the air. 

Thomas dropped his gaze. 

“… Never mind.” Thomas mumbled, his internal voice oddly silent and akin to the muted beating of his heart, “Just go, Jimmy. It’s fine.” 

“It _will_ be fine.” Jimmy urged him from the door. “I promise.” 

But even as Jimmy took a step, almost into the hallway and out of Thomas’ life again, John Bates spoke up with all the finality of a judge slamming a gavel. 

“Do you?” John said, loud and angry, “Because he's dying of love for you. And you don’t even care.” 

Thomas flushed, horribly embarrassed. He wished he could tell John to jump in front of a train if only it would make him shut _up._ An ugly band of color was spreading across Jimmy's face, his murderous rage back after being momentarily abated by Thomas. 

Jimmy leaned in, and though he was far from a worthy fight for John Bates, he was livid in his rage. 

"You're full of shit you ruddy cripple." Jimmy spat, and without another word he slammed the door. 

John and Baxter stood staring at one another, the floor, the door, then Thomas in turns- each unsure of what to say or how to even begin to salvage the situation. It would have been very British of them, in that moment, to pour tea and try to put the emotional disturbance from their mind, but Thomas was hardly one to lay back and think of England. He liked the sun, he liked men, he liked Jimmy- and as Thomas bowed his head he did not even attempt to stop his shoulders from shaking. 

John and Baxter both looked away, noble in their attempt to give him some dignity.

His burns were for nothing, and he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever been on a roller coaster, you'll know what a barrel roll is. The next four or five chapters are basically going to be barrel rolls.   
> WEE WHAT FUN.


	13. Doctor's Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damn.” He cursed aloud; he looked back up and found her wide eyed in horror, “You better go, I have to change.” 
> 
> “But- can you even do it on your own?” Daisy asked, her hand falling from Thomas’ cheek and into his lap. Once again, her fingers were unnervingly close to things that Thomas would prefer she never touch, and he shifted imperceptibly beneath her hand so that he was sitting a little farther back on the bed. 
> 
> “Probably not-“ Thomas admitted, for he was certain getting off his undershirt was going to be a bitch what with his multiple burns, “But I’ll give it a go.” 
> 
> For a moment Daisy just stared at him, wetting her lips and swallowing in nervous calculation. She looked from Thomas’ face to his bleeding chest, and then in such a shaky voice that it could hardly be called casual said, “I could help you.” 
> 
> Ah. A voice inside his head declared, So we’ve gotten to this part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes another barrel roll.

When Thomas had been a young boy, he’d learned very quickly that it was unwise to cry in front of his father. That had not made it any easier to stop, but it had helped Thomas not to take it personally when his father had berated him or beaten him for simply shedding tears. As an adult, with perspective and distance, Thomas could understand the pattern of abuse. Thomas would have done something his father hadn’t liked, his father would have been irked about it but done nothing back till he drank later on that day and then he would have found Thomas, cornered him, yelled at him until he made Thomas cry, and promptly smacked Thomas around the ears for not being “man enough”. 

He’d been five. 

Crying in front of John Bates was a different story, 

John was not about to hold his hand nor attempt to comfort him, but he certainly didn’t clip Thomas around the ears and yell at him for being a ‘weak woman’ either. Instead, John did Thomas the noble service of pretending not to notice Thomas crying like a child in the corner of the hotel room while Baxter wrapped his chest in ripped bandages and helped him into a fresh shirt. John sorted Thomas’ valise, paid off the barman (a fine fellow named Mr. Hooper who had never done Thomas a disservice in his time to use the Fountain Inn as a recovery stint for therapy), and called for another cab so that by the time it was four in the afternoon they were all on their way to the station despite the fact that Thomas was still sniveling with tiny quivering breathes. 

He was so incredibly tired that he did not fully register the moving process of leaving the cab, boarding the five o’clock train for Yorkshire, and disembarking at eight onto the Grantham platform. He was utterly spent, to the point of where it felt like his feet were dragging in the dirt, and the concept of walking all the way back to Downton was on the verge of impossible. Like some ugly hellish torture meant just for him so that he could repent for Jimmy and Daisy. He repented for not being good enough for Daisy, for being sinful and weak- prone to longing for Jimmy despite knowing it must surely be wrong. He repented for not being good enough for Jimmy, for needing him far too much and… and… 

But Thomas so tired that he could not even finish the thought. Could not even register why it was that he must suffer anymore save that it was his lot in life. That he ought not to complain; that it would change nothing. 

Nothing. 

They had barely made it off the platform and Thomas was already seeing stars dip and pinwheel behind his fluttering eyelids. The humiliation of having to tell Bates, a man with only one good leg, that he simply couldn’t walk home was rank and doing nothing for his nerves. Yet Thomas was spared having to admit the ugly truth when the sudden approach of a familiar motorcar caught Bates attention. 

“Mr. Pelham!” Bates said in surprise, “What are you doing here?” 

Mr. Pelham was the chauffeur to the Crawley's- an older kind gentleman who didn’t feel the need to marry a sister or burn down an Irish nobleman’s house- so what on earth was he doing at Grantham station so late at night? Surely he ought to be having supper by now in his cottage or driving one of the Crawley sisters about York. Instead Mr. Pelham was here, in the motorcar, and was hopping out to open the door for Bates and Phyllis as if they were all swell friends and every bit of this was planned. 

“I heard Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson talking about what happened; thought I ought to lend a helping hand.” Mr. Pelham was saying, and the smell of cigars filled Thomas’ nose as a sudden firm hand upon his back helped him towards the open door of the motorcar. 

_Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh-_ Thomas thought, with no idea as to why the sudden song blurb had come to his head. He was too tired to fight anymore. 

“That’s very kind of you.” Bates said. 

“Do you need help getting him into the back?” 

"Yes, please."

Mr. Pelham helped Phyllis up first; she took Thomas’ valise with her to set it on the floor in front of her feet. Now it was a matter of three separate sets of hands pushing and pulling Thomas, two from behind and one from in front. The combined efforts of Bates, Phyllis, and Mr. Pelham were just strong enough- just forceful enough- to give Thomas the leverage he needed to get his foot up off the ground and onto the stepping stool of the motorcar. He did not so much step up as he was shoved in, but he fell into the motorcar all the same so that a hot jolt of pain seized through his chest and arms making him cry out despite how he locked his jaw. 

“Just a moment more, and you’ll be home again Mr. Barrow! Ah ha ha!” Mr. Pelham urged, keeping that good natured joviality in spite of it all. It was slightly charming despite the fact that Thomas wanted to beat Mr. Pelham around the face with a tire iron just for speaking. 

The motorcar shifted on its axis as two more bodies clambered in, with Mr. Pelham taking the wheel and Bates shutting the door behind him. Thomas closed his eyes, so exhausted that he nearly fell into a deep sleep as Phyllis cradled herself against him and wrapped an arm around the back of his neck. 

The car started up and puttered away, each bump in the road like a land mine under Thomas’ feet. 

_All hands on deck!_ He wanted to say, _The damn Germans are at it again!_

Fucking Germans with their electrotherapy, shoddy motorcar driving, and lame legs. 

“We ought to stop at Dr. Clarkson’s.” Phyllis whispered to Bates, no doubt already thinking Thomas fast asleep. 

_Ha, that’s what you think, woman._ Thomas thought with no small amount of pride, _I’m always awake._

Except when he was asleep.  
Life was full of mysteries. 

“It’s too late,” Bates did not sound happy, “The hospital will be closed. We’ll have Mrs. Hughes ring for him tomorrow morning.” 

“I wish we had something for the burns at least.” 

“Mrs. Hughes ought to have something, and Lover-Boy’s paste should buy us some time at least.” 

_I’m going to strike you,_ Thomas thought vindictively, _I’m going to take your cane and beat you across the face with it- how dare you make fun of him in front me? Do you not know who I am and what I’m capable of? I will kill you._

As soon as he got the strength, of course. 

The car had stopped. There was the sound of crunching gravel underfoot and a distinct cold air entering the humid cabin as the door was opened. The motorcar shifted again as Bates clambered out, but Phyllis remained inside. 

More crunching gravel, more doors opening. Now there were three pairs of hands pulling on him again. 

“No…” Thomas moaned, unwilling to move, “Gerroph-“ 

“You two get him inside, I’ll park the car.” Mr. Pelham was saying as Thomas’ traitorous feet moved beneath him. 

_No!_ He refused to move, _Stay in the car where it’s warm and quiet! Stay and plot Bates' murder!_

But no one was listening to him, and so suddenly Thomas was pulled out of the cabin to land unsteadily upon the gravel. His knees nearly buckled- John caught him hard around the waist and Thomas moaned from the added pressure so close to his wounds. John didn’t know it, hand’t thought to check, but there were wounds upon his ankles as well from where he’d been strapped down to the legs of the therapy chair. Thomas wanted to sleep, to simply fall down and die, but no one was letting him. 

_What shoddy friends you are_ , Thomas thought bitterly. 

“Thank you Mr. Pelham, this is very kind of you.” Phyllis sounded truly appreciative; the sounds of doors closing and feet upon gravel heralded Mr. Pelham’s exit. 

“Happy to help! God save the queen.” Pelham chortled, and without further ado Thomas heard the motorcar puttering away up the gravel path. He still had his eyes closed. 

Bates took a step, and Thomas (clinging to his shoulders) nearly buckled to the earth for a second time as everything gave way and stars danced before his eyelids.

_Oh, what fun!_ Thomas thought mildly. 

“Steady, Thomas.” Bates was saying in his ear with warm warning as if he were a stubborn cow or a skittish horse. 

Thomas opened his eyes, head rolling upon his shoulders as he fixed Bates with the best glare he could come up with at last second and close to fainting. Thomas hadn’t realized it, or had simply been so traumatized by it that he’d blocked it out on sheer instinct, but he was pressed up against Bates and clinging to him so tightly to keep from slipping that if a stranger walked by they might think Thomas and Bates were lovers. 

“Mmm.” Thomas looked down, noting how his feet were cramped between both of Bates, “This is… unwise.” 

“I could always let you go.” Bates offered with a coy grin. 

“I will kill you.” Thomas mumbled. 

They were at Downton, which was unsurprising. Thomas was relieved to notice they were directly outside the courtyard where he’d so often smoked with O’Brien in his youth

It took a great deal of maneuvering, but they finally worked out a system where Bates held Thomas up by the waist with one hand only to anchor Thomas’ arm over the back of Phyllis’ shoulders with the other, the pair of them frog marching into courtyard with Phyllis still holding Thomas’ valise in her free hand. The family would no doubt be having dinner, with Carson presiding over Moseley and hounding his every move. 

God… Carson. 

Thomas faltered in his steps, and Bates slowed up to look down at Thomas worriedly. 

Thomas suddenly couldn’t take his eyes off the high windows of Downton, glowing in a canary hue with shadows flitting just out of range- people moving inside and going about their lives. Completely mindless to him, in the courtyard, freezing and clinging to John Bates like a drowning rat. 

Phyllis was rubbing his arm in a decidedly sympathetic fashion. 

“I’ll go in and tell Mrs. Hughes you’re home safe.” Phyllis said. “You two wait out here- in case the coast isn’t clear.” Phyllis gave Thomas a pointed look before moving to the door and ringing for entry. Madge, Lady Edith’s maid, let her in with a friendly smile. She didn’t even seem to notice Thomas and Bates hiding in the dark. 

_Daisy,_ Thomas thought, wincing as Bates helped him to slowly sit down on the courtyard bench, _God what will I tell Daisy._

It was strange, to sit in silence with Bates, to share an almost companionable atmosphere with him after so much bitterness and strife. It had been one thing for Bates to come up to his room and ask him to join their group on a walk to the memorial unveiling. It was another thing entirely to sit in the courtyard with him. To go up to London to find him. To hound Jimmy for an answer that Jimmy was not ready to give. 

“You shouldn’t-“ Thomas mumbled as Bates reached into Thomas’ coat pocket to pull out his packet of Woodbines. It was an incredibly intimate gesture but far from romantic as Bates offered Thomas a cigarette. 

He took it with clumsy hands. Bates lit it with his own lighter, before taking one for himself. 

“You shouldn’t ‘ave… ‘ave done that to ‘im.” Thomas mumbled. “You scared him.” 

Bates said nothing for a moment, smoking silently.  
Thomas could barely take a drag from his cigarette, his lungs were so weak. Instead, he simply let the cigarette sit in the corner of his mouth, burning away while Bates blew smoke rings into the air. They drifted up into the sky- 

_Stars…_ Thomas thought idly as he looked up, _Look at all those stars._

“You scared _me.”_ Bates replied. 

Thomas had no idea what to say. 

“He’s afraid, I’ll give you that.” Bates continue on, mouth mumbling slightly around the edges of a cigarette, “But I don’t rightly give a shit and neither should you. Not when you’re the one suffering for it.” 

Thomas turned, fixing Bates with a glare that at one time would have been cold and unfeeling. Now, there was a tinge of warmth to it, a budding of companionship that despite Thomas’ anger he would not deny. He was grateful to Bates, irritated but grateful… 

But there was something Bates needed to understand. 

“I will always give a shit about him.” Thomas whispered.  
Bates did not break eye contact; Thomas only just realized that Bates’ eyes were a dark brown. 

Bates opened his mouth to say something- but whatever it was was cut off by the back door opening again and two people strolling out into the courtyard. 

The pair of them looked around at once, and neither were surprised to see Mrs. Hughes walking alongside Phyllis- both women were clearly anxious. Phyllis was devoid of Thomas’ weatherbeaten valise. 

Mrs. Hughes’ steps slowed as she approached Thomas, and Thomas bowed his head to avoid the guilt her gaze brought him. He quickly dropped his cigarette onto the ground by his shoe, timidly moving his heel to squash out the light. Bates did the same, stamping a little harder on Thomas’ since his stance was so light from pain that he couldn’t adequately put out the embers. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mrs. Hughes spoke his name with gentlest care, a strange tone that seemed to imply _‘I’m not angry at you’_ , “Thomas. Are you well enough to stand?” 

She sounded none too sure. 

“…Not really.” Thomas admitted. Mrs. Hughes nodded. 

Bates rose up from the bench, cane in hand as he pulled Thomas up to anchor him once more around the waist. Phyllis helped, taking Thomas from the other side. Thomas caught a mere glimpse of Mrs. Hughes face and noted with a twinge how somber she seemed- how very tired and weary. She might not have been the one tied to a chair and shocked silly, but she was still ready to keel over. 

A stab of guilt made Thomas’ cheeks burn with shame. 

The step from the courtyard into the house felt like climbing Mount Everest, and as Thomas hobbled with Bates and Phyllis for support he felt hands at his back, trying to take his coat from his shoulders. 

“Best leave it on till we're upstairs.” Bates said; Mrs. Hughes dropped her hands at once. 

Inside the halls were quiet, a mark of the hall boys and maids all scampering to do late night chores before their dinner was served while Daisy and Patmore kept hard time in the kitchen. No one was around to see Thomas enter, which Thomas considered a brilliant stroke of luck since if anyone saw him now there would be no hiding his fate. 

“Where’s Anna?” Bates asked Mrs. Hughes as they stumbled along. 

“Tending to Lady Mary’s dancing shoes in the boot room.” Mrs. Hughes said. “Shall I fetch her?” 

“No-“ Thomas cut in before Bates could give a resounding yes, “Fer god’s sake no more…people…” 

“Fair enough.” Hughes agreed, begrudging as they tiptoed past the servant’s hall and to the stairs. They passed Carson’s office along the way, and Thomas noted his inventory clipboard was still right where he had left it on the shelf of the silver pantry. 

“I need to check-“ 

“You need to _sleep_ Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes corrected him, neither Bates nor Phyllis allowing him a moment to pause as they cleared the hallway.

“But th’ inventory-“ 

“You even touch that clipboard, I’ll beat you over the head with it.” Mrs. Hughes warned, and Thomas had to briefly consider the odds of him surviving an attack lodged by Mrs. Hughes. His ratios were poor. 

They’d arrived at the base of the stairs; Thomas looked them up and down, noting with horror that each step seemed like a hill and each landing a mountain. He briefly wondered if he would be able to even make it up to the top without fainting or puking and once again came up with poor ratios. He cast a glance back down the hallway to where Carson's’ office lay. 

“You know on second thought-“ Thomas mumbled, catching Bates’ eyes, “I think I’ll just sleep on the office floor tonight-“ 

“Here.” 

In a move of friendship that Thomas had not foreseen even with Bates’ charitable nature and Thomas’ pitiful state, Bates handed Phyllis his cane like a man who didn’t need it to walk, and grabbed Thomas tight to his side to use the railing with the other hand. Step by step, inch by inch, Bates pulled him up and Thomas was forcibly drug along despite how his calves ached and his chest heaved. 

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, John-“ Thomas lamented, but somehow they ended up snorting together as Phyllis and Mrs. Hughes watched in awe from the base of the stairs. It was like a game, to see who could make it to the top first: the wounded homosexual or the aging cripple. Thomas suddenly felt like a race horse jockeying for position. For every step that Bates took, Thomas wanted to take another. 

Perhaps this had been Bates’ motive all along. To goad him into action. 

“If I had a free arm-“ Bates griped as they climbed, each step a mile and a half, “I’d hit you with it.” 

“I don’t think that’d be sensible-“ Thomas slurred, lights dancing before his eyes. His palm felt incredibly hot and slick upon Bates’ arm. Either the maids were letting the fires get too hot or Thomas had miscalculated the season and it was actually the crux of summer. “Wouldn’t want t’send you tumblin’ down th’ stairs- ye might become _lame.”_ and he laughed sluggishly. 

Bates just kept helping him up, one step at a time. 

“Oh not to worry, I’d just break my fall with your neck.” Bates assured him in good humor. 

“You’d break more than my neck, you’re twenty stones-“ Thomas sneered. “Anna feedin’ you well, is she?” 

“You know, I’m tempted to throw you down the stairs-“ Bates said, and had it been an earlier time in their tentative bond Thomas would have half-believed him. Now, Thomas was certain that he’d become an investment to Bates, much in the way that Thomas had been an investment to O’Brien. He certainly couldn’t see them being friends- even now as Bates helped him up the stairs. 

“Tch!” Thomas just laughed, but even as he hitched a breath and made to take another step, a sudden cold rush flooded his body and made him go incredibly still. Despite half-dragging Thomas up the stairs, Bates felt Thomas’ lack of response and paused, looking down on Thomas as he took one breath after another, trying to regain his bearings.  
“Jus… Jus…” But Thomas couldn’t even speak any more, each word sluggish in his mouth as he fumbled for something adequate to say, something normal that would make Bates stop looking at him with such concern. 

His head lolled upon his shoulders, a horrible sweltering heat creeping up his neck from beneath his shirt. 

His knees trembled. 

“John-“ Thomas managed to stutter out-  
And then _everything_ went black. 

 

~*~

_He was walking down a corridor he knew well, one he’d trod a thousand times in his life, and yet something was different tonight. The air was thick, a swirling smokey blackness obscuring his vision so that even as he put one foot down he could not see in front of the other. He knew his destination was ahead, could sense it more than see it, but he had no idea what it looked like or how he’d know when he found it._

_All he knew was that somewhere ahead of him in the blackness, something very important was waiting. Very, very important._

_He came upon a door, one that he (once again) knew well and had (once again) seen a thousand times in his life. It bore the pathway to his heaven and hell, a strange double road that like a dual bladed knife that could cut both ways and leave him bleeding like a stuck pig. He would happily bleed, though, if it only meant he could open the door and go inside._

_He reached out, and took the handle to push it wide._

_Yet even as he pushed the door, Thomas was transported. Suddenly he was not the one walking but the one watching; he was in bed, laying beneath the covers with his head propped comfortably upon the pillow. There before him, tentative in his approach, was Jimmy… Jimmy in threadbare pajamas and tousled golden hair. He carried a leather shoulder satchel over his arm. Inside it, Thomas could hear a clock ticking away._

_Jimmy took one step, the another, Thomas lay perfectly still waiting for him to reach the bed._

_“Don’t be afraid-“ he wanted to say. Instead he simply lay as if in a deep sleep and waited… waited… waited…_

_Jimmy was before him now, only inches away, and as he sat down upon the bed Thomas was suddenly struck by how similar Jimmy’s determination was to his own on that fateful night. He knew even before Jimmy leaned in to kiss him that Jimmy was going to and waited with delight and delirium._

_“Kiss me” Thomas wanted to say, “Kiss me; save me. I’m yours. I’m always yours.”_

_Jimmy pressed his lips to Thomas’ own… and Thomas finally found home._

Thomas exhaled slowly, golden relief flooding him from every inch of his core, until a sudden voice broke through his blissful delirium and brought reality back in with a resounding crash. 

“Are you awake?” 

Thomas opened his eyes. 

The image of Jimmy was slowly fading, swimming in a flickering blurry haze to be replaced by the curvaceous form of a young woman with her hair pinned back behind a white cap. The smell of apples only became stronger as she leaned forward, and she reached out with a blistered hand to stroke Thomas’ sweaty cheek. 

Thomas blinked rapidly, trying to clear his mind, and then several things became apparent. 

He was in his room, in his underclothes, and in bed. The last time he’d checked, he’d been outside in the courtyard with Bates, or possibly on the stairwell up (he couldn’t say for certain) and the idea that someone had not only carried him to his room but also undressed him and tucked him into bed was so disturbing and disgusting that Thomas didn’t know where to start. The second most startling revelation of the hour was that Daisy Mason was in his room with him, on his bed, and clearly alone. He had no way of knowing how long she’d been there or what she’d been doing in that time, and both thoughts frightened him immensely. It was a breech of privacy and a terrifying concept that she could have been looking through his drawers or smelling his shirts in his wardrobe, and suddenly Thomas realized how Jimmy must have felt when he woke up to find Thomas kissing him. 

_Turn about’s fair play-_ Jimmy’s voice whispered in Thomas’ ear. 

Turn about indeed. Thomas sat up, his head spinning only a little as he touched his brow and rubbed it gingerly. He suddenly realized that his arms were properly bandaged instead of being covered in the fragments of a torn shirt- someone had been tending to his wounds. But who? Thomas looked up at Daisy, alarmed, and found her sympathetic as she continued to stroke his face. 

She’d been the one kissing him, not Jimmy. A cold ugly numbness began to seep through Thomas' chest and limbs. 

“Is’ alright.” She whispered softly. “You’ve been asleep all day. Mrs. Hughes rang for Dr. Clarkson, and he came up and tended to you. He wanted you to sleep, something about sweating out a fever…” She paused, “I’ve been trying to get up here all day, I only just now got away. I’m sorry.” 

Thomas swallowed. 

“How…” He whispered throatily; he coughed to clear his voice, “How did I get in bed?” 

“Mr. Bates carried you up.” Daisy said. “It was really something, he walked up four flights of stairs without his cane, holding you to his chest. He was smartin’ something awful by the time he was finished, he said he’d give you a good wholluping for it later.” 

_Oh goody,_ Thomas thought bitterly, _Something to look forward to. Bates spanking me._

He briefly wondered if Bates would use his own hand or his cane, and then immediately stopped himself from going an inch further down that trail of thought for the sake of his already shaky sanity. 

“Does anyone else know that you’re in here?” Thomas asked, fearful for the answer. Daisy flushed, looking down at Thomas’ quilt coverlet to pick at a loose thread. 

_You’re fond of doing that,_ he thought idly. 

“No.” She admitted. “You know they wouldn’t let me up here.” 

_And with good reason,_ he thought. 

“You… You really shouldn’t be in here, Daisy.” Thomas whispered, “It’s not…” 

Not what? Safe? Proper? Sane? Advisable? 

“Why did you go to London?” Daisy asked, not even bothering to answer Thomas’ initial concern, “No one will tell me what’s going on. I’ve been so worried.” And she certainly sounded it. She chewed her bottom lip, eyes ghosting over Thomas’ face to continuously fall back to his coverlet. It seemed that despite avoiding the subject of her intrusion, she knew how uncomfortable Thomas was feeling. 

If she knew then why was she in the room?  
_Because she loves you, you numpty-_

“I wish I could tell you.” Thomas admitted, though this was only slightly true, “But… It’s complicated, and it would only hurt you. You’d hate me if you knew-“ 

“I’d never hate you!” Daisy admonished him softly, “I’d do anything for you.” 

She placed her hand upon his knee. Thomas looked down at it, remembering how Edward Courtenay had once done the same in an act of empathy. He reached out, taking Daisy’s blistered fingers in hand, Thomas gently stroked each digit. 

He could tell her now.  
He could tell her everything. 

But he was tired, so very tired and Daisy was innocent in this whole process. Daisy had never done a thing wrong in her life, had always been such a good girl and kept to the straight and narrow. When she touched him, she possessed such warmth and clarity. Such… kindness. It was a foreign concept to Thomas, like Daisy was speaking arabic to him- 

But in the babble of nonsense that she spewed at him about love and courting he forgot his pain. And that was something. 

“The last time you said you’d do anything for me.. I made you lie.” Thomas whispered as he caressed her fingers, “Cause I were a bastard- am a bastard.” 

“Don’t say tha’-“ Daisy admonished softly, using her other hand to reach out and cup Thomas’ cheek again. She stroked the stubbled skin there, as if amazed to discover he did in fact grow facial hair. Then again she’d only ever seen him clean shaven before. “You’re- oh!” Daisy backtracked, and whatever she’d thought to say was suddenly forgotten as she proclaimed, “You’re bleeding!” in horror. Thomas looked down, Daisy’s hand slipping upon his cheek as he moved; he cursed under his breath at the bands of red suddenly beginning to poke out from his nightshirt. That made two shirts he’d lost to this endeavor. 

“Damn.” He cursed aloud; he looked back up and found her wide eyed in horror, “You better go, I have to change.” 

“But- can you even do it on your own?” Daisy asked, her hand falling from Thomas’ cheek and into his lap. Once again, her fingers were unnervingly close to things that Thomas would prefer she never touch, and he shifted imperceptibly beneath her hand so that he was sitting a little farther back on the bed. 

“Probably not-“ Thomas admitted, for he was certain getting off his undershirt was going to be a bitch what with his multiple burns, “But I’ll give it a go.” 

For a moment Daisy just stared at him, wetting her lips and swallowing in nervous calculation. She looked from Thomas’ face to his bleeding chest, and then in such a shaky voice that it could hardly be called casual said, “I could help you.” 

_Ah._ A voice inside his head declared, _So we’ve gotten to this part._

Thomas had never willingly stripped for a woman besides his mother and sister. In his youth, Thomas had known instinctively that he was different, that he liked men and wanted to be one with them- that women would never captivate his interests sexually or otherwise so why even bother? Why go asking for trouble? 

Now, faced with what would surely be the first of many hurdles, Thomas’ brain kicked into high gear in an attempt to protect him from the emotional trauma of Daisy seeing his naked flesh. 

_Just let her help you and if it gets to be too much tell her you need some time alone. She can’t hardly deny you, can she? And she wouldn’t be so bold as to do something untoward- she’s not that kind of girl. She’s in love, she wants to help you- that’s all this is is help. No one’s screaming blue murder. No one’s calling the police. Take off your bloody shirt and get over yourself._

Thomas swallowed. 

_And don’t think of Jimmy whatever you do._

“You won’t like what you see.” Thomas warned, hoarse. 

“I can take it.” Daisy whispered; Thomas couldn’t even meet her eyes, looking at the floor instead. “For you, I can take it.” 

Thomas thought of Carson, Bates, and Patmore. Of Hughes, Anna, and Baxter. Of Joseph Moseley and Mr. Mason and every person who would absolutely be horrified at what he was about to do. 

And then he thought of Jimmy Kent.  
_“I’m not some bloody nancy lavender chit!”_

Thomas bowed his head, nodding absently to himself. _Right, then._

“S-second drawer of my bureau.” Thomas mumbled, nodding his head to the white washed furniture, “Just grab a shirt it doesn’t matter which.” 

Daisy nodded, rising up and fetching one at once to pause at the picture upon Thomas’ dresser. It was of Edward, and Thomas instantly cursed himself for letting her see it- for not remembering it was there- as she tilted her head and looked at Edward closer. 

“Whose this?” Daisy asked. She opened the drawer and fetched Thomas’ spare nightshirt. Bringing it back over to him, she perched herself on the edge of his bed, rather close to his torso so that she needn’t move very much to help him out of shirt. 

Even so, she kept her hands to herself, folding his fresh shirt in her lap. 

“Uh.. old friend.” Thomas lied. 

They stared at each other; just a hair of a second, but Thomas blushed and shifted all the same. 

_Jesus god I’m going to be sick-_ He thought as Daisy’s hands reached out to take the hem of his shirt in hand. 

_Just do it, just do it- do you want to be alone forever-? Do you want to die alone? Do you want to be lost in the darkness? Do you?_

 

“You shouldn’t…” Thomas whispered even as Daisy began to lift the shirt over his head. Bile rose in his throat as her fingers touched his naked flesh. 

Flashes of gold and darkest purple skirted his brain. 

_Stop, stop, stop, stop-!_

“St-“ but the word never passed Thomas’ lips because Daisy was lifting his shirt over his head, and his mouth was momentarily covered. The ache of his arms as they moved caused Thomas to let out an involuntary groan that he quickly stifled for fear someone would hear. God if they found in bed, with his shirt off, and Daisy over him? He’d never live it down. He’d be out on his ass in a heartbeat, without a reference. He’d die in a gutter. 

_God save me-_ he thought in despair, huddling his arms over his naked chest so that Daisy could not see his pectorals and abdomen. Thomas could see now that several layers of heavy gauze were wrapped around his chest, pinned to his side and smelling faintly of a healing oil- they were flecked with blood as it oozed from his wounds, no doubt irritated by him sitting up in bed after laying flat for a day. 

“Oh Thomas…” Daisy whispered, horrified at the amount of wounds he’d incurred. “Thomas, what happened to you?” She asked, reaching out to touch the gauze wrapped around his chest. He jerked back instinctively, his heart pounding in his throat. He had his eyes closed now, and could not bear to open them lest he see Daisy before him. See her staring at him with such worry and fear. 

If ever there were a moment for his mask to drop, it would be now. 

He shuddered, his breathing coming fast and shallow. 

“Is’… Is’ nothin’.” Thomas whispered, shaking his head. “Jus’…” but his voice trailed away. 

_Please leave,_ he wanted to whimper, _Please get out._

“These need to be re-bandaged.” Daisy said, though she sounded uncertain about the whole process; her voice strengthened, “I could do it. I know I could. I’m going to take your shirt down to the wash. I bet we can save it if it we put it to soak quick enough.” 

“Can’t go losing another.” Thomas mumbled, “I already lost one in London.” 

“I’ll be right back.” Daisy said, and she left without another word taking Thomas blood tinged shirt with her. 

_Oh Christ._ Thomas thought, falling back into his pillows despite the sharp throbbing pain that burst into his chest. _Oh Christ help me. Jesus help me._

But Jesus would be the last to help Thomas in any situation. 

Nothing had worked; not the pills, not the vaccines, not the electrotherapy- _nothing_. The minute Thomas had taken off his shirt for Daisy, had allowed her to see his semi-naked chest, it had become abundantly clear that any relationship with her he could sustain would not be one involving sexual contact. He tried to imagine himself laying naked with Daisy. Tried to imagine her atop him, her pert breasts perched against his chest and her lips crashing upon his own. Her sex would be moist, her legs spread, and she’d swallow him up with such ease that Thomas would surely drown within her. Surely be lost- Daisy was too soft, she was like well kneaded dough. She’d suffocate him in her folds, choke him till he lost consciousness- 

Thomas wanted to cry. 

He wanted nothing to do with that pain, wanted to stay as far away from it as possible. There was no way he could be with Daisy in an intimate setting- kissing her was difficult enough. Sex, in his experience was an incredible orgasmic release from years of built of tension and suffering. When Thomas had made love for the first time, he’d been with Philip and spread out on expensive sheets like a fine dining expedition. He’d shook, not from the cold, till Philip had pressed himself into Thomas, covering him from head to toe with naked flesh- Thomas had reveled in it… delighted in it… and when Philip had grabbed his cock he’d felt like worshiping the man as a golden idol. 

_“Oh Philip-“_ Thomas had whimpered, _“Touch me-“_ for no one ever touched him and when they did they hardly did so with love. Touches meant pain… but not with Philip. 

Philip had acquiesced at once, and by the end of it Thomas had been screaming into the pillows his body singing like a hot wire. The cleft of his arse had burned, his passage stretched more than had felt humanly possible- than had felt sane or reasonable- but still Philip had pounded into him all the same till a liquid heat had filled his stomach. Philip had been a devoted lover, pumping Thomas’ aching cock with such thrust and vigor that it had taken little more than sweet whispers in Thomas’ ear and a flew flicks of the wrist to get Thomas off. 

He’d never had such pleasurable sex since Philip, perhaps because he hadn’t been in love with any of his other partners. 

He could never have that with Daisy. Could never feel such pleasure, such delights in her arms. At most, he’d simply feel…layered. Like he was being smothered underneath a heavy blanket and left to roast to death. 

The fires of hell were hot, they said… but not nearly as hot as that ugly damning blanket. 

A soft knock alerted his attention to Daisy’s return, and he desperately grabbed his coverlet to hide his naked chest as Daisy opened the door and poked her head in the room. She had a bundle under her arm, a large dinner napkin unfolded to make an odd holder for several rolls of pilfered gauze and a glass jar of ointment that Thomas instantly recognized as the very same menthol cream that Jimmy had rubbed onto his chest. 

_Oh god, no-_ Thomas thought with despair as Daisy approached, _Not that cream, anything but that cream._

Daisy sat back down on the side of his bed, unfolding the napkin in her lap, and she put each roll of gauze onto his bedside table in a neat pyramid formation. She unscrewed the menthol jar, and as the smell filled Thomas’ nose he shuddered audibly to look away. 

The smell instantly brought back memories of Jimmy’s fingers upon his chest. Of how beautiful his hair had looked amid the light of his bedside lamp. Like it had been on fire somehow. 

“..May I?” Daisy whispered. Thomas did not even look back around, too afraid of what he might find waiting for him if he did. 

“I-“ Thomas swallowed his heart hammering in his chest. “You shouldn’t.” 

“I want to.” Daisy whispered. 

_“I’m not some bloody nancy lavender chit!”_ Jimmy had snarled. 

Thomas bowed his head. 

He took a deep breath, and slowly lowered the blanket covering his chest. 

He closed his eyes, not wanting the visual confirmation as he felt Daisy’s hands slowly pulling at the bandages upon his chest. It was easy, he thought, easy to sit here and pretend that someone else was bandaging him up. That someone else was doctoring him with such loving and devoted care.

Perhaps it was Philip, though why Thomas would be injured around Philip he could not say. Philip would probably have declined to care for him himself, instead no doubt taking Thomas to a skilled doctor. _“I won’t trust you to anyone else.”_ he would have soothed and Thomas would have felt treasured. 

Perhaps it was Edward, no doubt healing Thomas after some battle in the Somme while the gunfire still raged over his head. This would be before Edward’s blindness, before Edward’s fear and depression- Edward would smile and wrap up Thomas chest, kissing the knuckles of his wounded hand to whisper _“You’re so brave, darling. So very very brave. England is lucky to have you.”_ before palming Thomas’ aching cock in his hand and rewarding Thomas for being such a good patient. 

Perhaps it was Jimmy, healing Thomas after an unsuccessful round of electrotherapy. Jimmy would argue with Bates and sneak in while Thomas was alone to rub menthol paste upon his chest, whispering about how life was an oddity and Thomas was a numpty brain. But this time, Thomas reasoned, Jimmy would not be afraid or absent- this time Jimmy would whisper, _“I love you, you twit”_ even as he bandaged Thomas up, _“So don't you go scaring me like this again.”_

Daisy had stopped unwrapping his chest- his wounds were bared before her. 

“Burns…” She whispered the word, truly horrified by what she found.” But… were you in a fire?” She asked fearfully. 

Thomas shook his head, still refusing to open his eyes. 

“No.” Thomas whispered gravely, “I was shocked.” 

_I could tell her._ Thomas thought. _I could tell her right now._

And perhaps he should. 

He opened his eyes, and found Daisy staring gravely at his wounds, which were blistering and swollen, tender to the touch with pain. Blood oozed from the edges, but still Daisy continued to stare without moving to stem the flow or apply the paste. Thomas wondered if Daisy had ever seen such extensive damage in her life, and doubted it. 

_Dear god,_ he thought, _I’ve traumatized her._

“Daisy?” Thomas called out her name, “Are you alright?” 

He seemed to snap her from a reverie and when she came to she instantly resettled her facial expression to one of firm determination as she took up some paste to begin applying it to the edges of Thomas’ wounds. Thomas winced at the sudden throbbing burning pain, wishing for nothing more than a nail to bite down on if only to keep from screaming curses aloud. 

“…You’re really strong.” Daisy whispered in awe. “To take this pain.” 

“Don’t bother.” Thomas ground out, desperate for a distraction. He knew Daisy would gab away if he gave her an excuse. “Did you have a good day today?” 

“No.” Daisy admitted as she worked; Thomas absorbed himself in her words, desperately trying to forget about the pain, “I was so worried about you the whole time, and Mrs. Patmore was getting onto me about making things for Christmas even though it’s weeks away. she wants to make pheasant for the downstairs and roasted pig and goose for the upstairs.” 

 

_Christmas, Christmas, there’s an idea-!_ his fevered brain hassled, _Get her talking about Christmas!_

“What’s your favorite part about Christmas?” Thomas asked. Daisy smiled, her cheeks turning the slightest bit pink. 

“The cards.” Daisy said, “I like to put them up in my room. What’s yours?” 

“The quiet.” Thomas whispered, breathing labored as Daisy continued to apply Jimmy’s paste. “The- the quiet when everyone’s gone to bed and the snow is falling outside-“ 

_When Jimmy and I can play cards alone and smoke in silence while we share the last bit of plum pudding. Like last year._

“What would you like for Christmas?” Thomas asked, desperate for another taking point. The pain was becoming so intense he thought he might pass out. 

“From you?” Daisy asked, a little amazed; her fingers paused upon his chest. 

“Mm.” was all Thomas could say, a far nicer cry than _“Of course from me, damnit-“_

“Um…well.. Daisy was very tentative. “I suppose… a kiss.” 

“I could kiss you.” Thomas whispered, a simple commodity that merely required him moving his mouth. No emotion, no warmth. “But you have such beautiful hair too.” and he resolved in that moment (should he live through this hell) to buy her a comb that she could wear in her lovely hair. 

Daisy laughed as if he’d said something funny when Thomas was quite certain he had not- she resealed the lid of the menthol paste, wiping her hands upon the edges of her faded apron to take up a roll of gauze. 

_God preserve me,_ Thomas internally whimpered as Daisy drew quite close. She undid a roll of gauze about a foot and began to wrap Thomas about the chest so that every time her arm went around back her face came horribly close to his chest. Thomas could swear she could hear his hammering heart- sense his jangled nerves. 

“What would you like for Christmas?” Daisy asked, sounding just as nervous as Thomas felt. Thomas took a shuddering breath as she bent in close to nearly press her cheek to his pectorals. 

“Nothing.” Thomas whispered; in his pain filled state he couldn’t much come up with a lie never the less an actual honest answer. Daisy’s fingers lightly skirted around the dark brown edges of a severe burn and a bolt of pain shot through Thomas like an after shock of the electrotherapy, “Bloody hell!” He cursed, wincing at the look of fear it inspired on Daisy’s innocent face, “These bastards are trying to kill me.” 

“But why?” Daisy demanded as she finished off the last roll of gauze to tuck it neatly into a prior wrap, “Why even go to electrotherapy?” 

Thomas met her eyes, and immediately regretted what he found there. A yearning, a demand to be included in his private life that came from the fact they were courting- yet Daisy couldn’t know the truth without knowing the extent of his lies, and Thomas was so desperate for her kindness that he backtracked, trying for something vague to keep her guessing without keeping her in the dark. 

“Because I’m sick.” He mumbled. 

“Sick with what?” Daisy asked, stroking the edges of his gauze in what she must have hoped was a soothing manner. It just added more pressure to his wounds; Thomas wanted to bark at her to stop. 

“I’m sick in the head, Daisy.” He blurted out, “I’m a bastard-“ 

“Stop saying that-“ She urged. 

“But it’s true. If you knew me…” But his head was spinning overwhelmed by pain and the smell of menthol. He found himself laying back on his pillows, Daisy’s hands helping him along the way down, and when he finally rested against his bed he found his gaze going watery again. The light of his bedside lamp and the trace of menthol on the air was clouding Thomas’ senses, making him feel weak and unsure. “If you knew what was wrong-you would agree. I’m telling you…” 

The amber light from his lamp was making Daisy’s hair look gold. 

“You would have me if you knew who I was.” 

_“But I know who you are.”_ Daisy urged, or was it Daisy at all? Thomas couldn’t be sure, couldn’t fully wrap his head around who was before him between the menthol and the light and the pain that numbed his higher thinking. A deep part of him, locked away by the smell of menthol and the burn of pain, warned him that the figure before his watery eyes was Daisy. 

But his brain was in a muck, and the gold in figure’s hair made him beg to differ with the voice of reason. 

“Who am I then?” Thomas replied sluggishly, waiting to see what the figure would say. 

_“You’re Thomas Barrow.” Jimmy Kent replied, the most natural thing in the world for him to say. His tongue formed the words so perfectly, “You’re the footman, the valet, the under butler. You’re poised… you’re powerful… and you’re predatory. You strive for perfection, and you beat yourself up when you don’t maintain it. And you can be really nasty… but you can also be really nice. And I love you.”_

“Oh-“ Thomas could not hold back the groan that escaped his lips, the feeling of longing and tender affection blooming in his chest and seeping through every crevice and crack time had worn down on his heart. “Say it again.” 

_Again, and again, and again-_ he thought in a babble of consciousness. _Tell me you love me again._

_“I love you.”_ Jimmy said, with such conviction and strength that Thomas at once felt like he could take on the world again, _“I love you for all your niceness… and your smokes and your smiles… and your striving for perfection and… your arm muscles-“_ Thomas snorted at this as Jimmy ran a hand up and down his arm, squeezing his bicep appreciatively. 

_“Do you… love me…?”_ Jimmy asked, the tiniest tinge of fear growing in his voice. 

Thomas wouldn’t stand for it. He reached up with his semi-gloved hand to take Jimmy’s in his own, and repeatedly kissed the knuckles he found there. Over and over again he kissed Jimmy’s hand, spreading his love down Jimmy’s palm to his wrist which he sucked with the tenderest care, scraping his teeth lightly against the fluttering pulse. 

Jimmy whimpered. 

“I love you.” Thomas whispered, a command so tried and true he could have worn it onto stone with the very force of his yearning, “I love you with all my cold, bitter heart.” Jimmy laughed a little at this, even as Thomas continued to kiss his hand like it were a golden idol upon a revered altar, “And I wouldn’t change a single thing about you, my lamb.” 

He half expected Jimmy to tease him, to make some comment about how Thomas had referred him to a bleating farm creature instead of something strong, fierce, and proud- but even as Thomas laid Jimmy’s hand flat to kiss the underside of his long fingers, Thomas noticed blisters that had never been there before. 

And a wedding ring. 

Thomas stopped. 

Jimmy’s fingers were not long. They were shorter than Thomas’ own and thick in build- not slender or tapered as the ones before him were. Jimmy’s hands didn’t have blisters either. He had one callus upon his ring finger- near the knuckle where he might grip his pen too hard. He most certainly did not have a wedding ring, and Thomas looked up in abject horror, his eyes growing wide as the image of Jimmy Kent vanished in a flash to be replaced by Daisy Mason. 

_Oh god,_ he thought with a whimper, _The world has gone insane._

“Thomas?” Daisy asked, the blissful smile upon her face sliding into a frown of slightest worry at his sudden and disturbing change of demeanor. 

There were light teeth marks upon her wrist. 

“…You should go.” Thomas whispered softly, looking down at his coverlet to keep from catching Daisy’s eye, “In case… In case.” 

But he could say no more. 

“O’course.” Daisy leaned in, and the kiss she placed upon his lips was a timid and fragile thing. A sweet goodbye in spite of her strong hello. Thomas mimicked the gesture, moved his lips, but his heart was pounding in his chest and his fingers were beginning to sweat wildly. 

“I love you.” Daisy whispered. 

“I love you.” Thomas repeated- another mimicry. Words without meaning. 

_There are parasites in me mouth,_ he thought without a clue as to why, _parasites are making me do this._

“Goodnight.” She kissed him again. Another mimicry. 

“Goodnight.” 

As she rose she took the jar of menthol cream with her. It was just as well. Had she left it there Thomas would have no doubt scooped the paste and attempted to eat it out of an act of desperation to keep smelling Jimmy on him. To keep the facade up just a little bit longer. 

When she closed the door behind her, Thomas once again felt like he was being caged in a prison. 

Jimmy was not in this house. Jimmy was not even in this bloody county. Jimmy was in London, in Aberdeen or somewhere nearby, buying new music records and wearing that beautiful blue vest. A golden curl or two would poke out underneath a dark newscap and his leather satchel would dig into his shoulder. If Thomas were there with him, he’d take the satchel from Jimmy, happily split the burden so as to allow Jimmy more freedom. 

But freedom was a foreign word on Thomas’ tongue now, a concept that had no meaning to him when every illusion could be Daisy in disguise and every avenue he pursued was a dead end. The vaccines had not worked, the pills had not worked, the shocks had not worked. Nothing had worked nor changed, save that Thomas was now pretending to court a woman he only cared for as a sister and new burns were etched into his chest. 

Without truly knowing why, perhaps working on autopilot alone, Thomas reached over to turn off his bedside lamp. Sleep was the only reprieve for him now, or so he thought until his eyes fell upon the brown bottle of pills sitting on his desk. He didn’t have very many left now, perhaps twenty at most. 

He sat up in bed, alone in the dark of his jail-cell-bedroom, and considered his options. 

Once when he’d been very young, he’d had a fever from a nasty head cold- something about playing in the rain despite his mother screaming at him to get back inside. He’d been laid up in bed for several days, a pathetic sniveling mess that whimpered to be held and breathed through his mouth. His mother had fed him soup and read to him from a book she’d purchased- some story about a gentleman and his valet exploring the English countryside. When his fever had not broken, he distinctly remembered her taking a bottle from the medicine cabinet and giving him four pills instead of the usual two. 

_“Just this once we’ll go over.”_ she’d said, _“To help break the fever faster”._

The very next day he’d been up and bouncing around, determined to go back outside and play. 

“Just this once we’ll go over.” Thomas repeated her words. “To help break the fever faster.” 

His mother had been smart, incredibly smart. If it had been dangerous to take more than the recommended amount then she would have known. She would have said something. She’d never given Thomas four pills again but he’d never _needed_ four pills again so why did it matter? 

He slid out of bed, legs aching and wrapped in pinked gauze, and stumbled only a step or two to reach for the bottle of pills. Glittering in the shaded moonlight, they reminded Thomas of sleeping bugs, all curled up with their legs tucked into their soft under bellies. 

_Parasites are eating at me brain._ He thought again, uncapping the bottle. 

_“Just this once we’ll go over.”_ his mother had said. 

Thomas tipped the jar back, pill after pill falling into his hand. He counted them in his hand, and found twenty three of them waiting. 

That seemed a good amount. Two, four, twenty three, did it bloody well matter anymore if the pills weren’t even working? 

_“All you’ll achieve is to have no feelings at all.”_ Phyllis had warned so long ago, _“Is that really what you want?”_

Yes. 

Thomas cupped his hand to his mouth, and without a second thought as to the consequences swallowed every last pill in his hand. He felt like a child chugging candy in a store in an attempt to keep from paying, a thief hoarding jewels under their tongue to keep from being caught. 

_Parasites are eating at me brain._ Thomas thought again as he crawled back into bed, each pill sticky and feeling the size of a muscadine as it fell through the back of his throat. 

He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come. 

~*~

Elsie Hughes had seen some pretty strange things in her sixty years, and most had unfortunately happened within the halls of Downton. One or two had naturally involved Thomas Barrow, and until the morning of December twelfth of 1924, the oddest thing she’d ever seen Thomas-wise was Thomas flirting openly with Jimmy over breakfast as happy as a clam. 

_“I expect you always try to be prepared.”_ Thomas had said, his voice dripping in innuendo; Elsie had shown a great deal of restraint in not reaching over and wapping him lightly over the back of the head. 

_"I try to be, Mr. Barrow.”_ Jimmy had replied with a smirk. Thomas had looked ecstatic 

_Good lord,_ Elsie could remember thinking, _They’re flirting right at the table._

What she’d give now for such simpler times. 

There was no red circle marked around the date of December twelfth, no obvious way for Elsie to tell in the crisp morning air or the way the maids scuttled about with freshly made linens that something was askew, but as she stepped around the corner of the servant’s hall at 6:00 sharp to observe the breakfast layout for the upper ten, she was utterly thrown to find Thomas Barrow sitting (no, _jiggling_ ) in his normal seat with hair askew and a deranged expression upon his face. 

Elsie gaped. 

“Thomas?!” She demanded, a thousand questions exploding in her brain like fireworks. How had he gotten down the stairs? How long had he been sitting there? Thomas’ eyes were glazed, as if he were suffering from an opium high, his fingers both maimed and whole jittering upon the servant’s table as he played out a mute piano beat upon the wood. He kept twisting and turning, as if expecting someone to walk up on him from behind, but when he found no one there he simply twisted back around in his seat and kept playing the piano. Worse yet, her call had given Thomas no clear reaction. It was as if he had not heard her, as if he could even see her, and his state of dress (or _undress_ ) was such that it was clear Thomas had attempted to get his livery on but given up the job halfway through. His vest was unbuttoned (though his shirt was mercifully done up) and his hair was flying up at all angles to fall in his face. He likewise had his shirt sleeves rolled up around his elbows, both the bandages on his arms clear as day and tinged in pink from where blood had begun to seep through at the edges. 

Thomas smiled and hummed, completely lost in his own world. 

_Dear god,_ Elsie thought, _He’s lost his marbles._

“What are you doing down here?” Elsie demanded, her gate decidedly slow as she came around the edge of the servant’s table to approach Thomas from the side. She noticed with a pang that he wasn’t wearing shoes either, the bottom tips of his bandages just visible around his ankles. “You go back to bed this instant-“ 

“Oh I’m fine, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas said, a blissful smile upon his face as he rocked in his chair and beat a tune upon the table. _Pat, pat, pat_ went his hands; Elsie noted the buttons of his semi-glove were undone, the barest edges of his war-wound showing through. 

It was the presence of his smile, and the edge of that war wound which cemented for Elsie just how unhinged Thomas was. He never smiled, and he certainly never allowed anyone else to see that war wound. 

“You most certainly are not fine.” Elsie admonished him, wondering how on earth she was going to get him back up the stairs and away from the table before Charlie walked around the corner and had a fit. 

“I wonder what it’s like to wear a dress.” Thomas said, as flippant as you please with no care for what another might think or say back. 

“I’ve no complaints-“ Elsie muttered, but before she could attempt to escort Thomas back upstairs two faces walked around the corner freshly scrubbed and ready to face the day. John Bates looked a tiny bit exhausted, no doubt from his long journey yesterday, but a cup of coffee would wake him up sure enough and Anna was upon his arm, keeping him smiling. Both were taken aback, however, to see Thomas at the table in such a state of disarray and undress. 

John was the first to speak, the words flying from his mouth in his shock. 

“Thomas!” John barked; Thomas made utterly no notice of John, instead humming a tune underneath his breath. Elsie recognized it as _Alexander’s Ragtime Band._ “What are you doing downstairs?” 

“G’mornin’ John!” Thomas said, with such breeze and flippancy that John did a double take and went a shade paler. 

“… What have you taken?” John demanded, his voice hard. Thomas just kept smiling and playing. 

“Is he sober?” Anna whispered in the deepest hush. Elsie couldn’t smell a drop of wine on Thomas. 

“I don’t think he’s drunk.” Elsie said, “But I don’t think he knows where he is either.” 

Anna was decidedly disturbed now, bless her heart. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ She let go of John’s arm to come slightly around the table, “Are you quite alright?” 

Thomas blinked up at her owlishly, taking in the sight of her golden spun hair with greatest intrigue. Anna reached out but faltered, her hands falling from mid-air back to her sides; she seemed clueless as to what to do. 

“How do you… How do you keep yer hair up?” Thomas asked Anna. Anna blinked. 

“What?” She asked, utterly confused. She reached up, touching her bound braids. 

“Like- all that hair-“ Thomas gestured with a wild wave of the hand, nearly hitting Elsie in the process, “That’s a lot of hair- how do you keep it up?” 

“I- I braid it?” Anna faltered, her face falling even deeper as Thomas nodded with rapt attention. 

“That’s a lot of braiding.” Thomas agreed. 

“Are you quite well?” Anna asked, fearful for the answer Thomas might give. 

“Yep!” Thomas beamed. “I’m great!” 

Anna was taken aback, having never seen Thomas smile. He looked like a completely different person, years younger to accurately reflect a man in his late twenties- his gray eyes sparkled, turning the tiniest bit hazel as a morning sun beam fell onto his face. With his hair in his face and his lips turned upward in a smile, Thomas looked a thousand years apart from his usual self. 

And it hurt to witness. To know this was what Thomas could look like if only Thomas were happier. 

“You need to go back upstairs,” Elsie urged, stooping over to place her hands upon Thomas’ shoulders. It was only then that she noticed the fine tremor running through them. Thomas was shaking, as if suffering from a severe cold, “You need to go to bed.” 

“I slept.” Thomas said, still grinning, “I’m fine. The sooner-“ he broke off, dazed, but snapped back like flexing rubber, “The sooner the better.” 

“The sooner for what?” Hughes demanded. 

“What?” Thomas looked around and up at her, politely puzzled. 

Elsie swallowed, her heart picking up a pace in her chest. Thomas couldn’t even follow a train of thought- couldn’t even recall a sentence he’d spoken ten seconds after speaking it. 

_The doctor-_ Elsie thought hurriedly as her eyes flickered up to Anna who was quite pale now, a hand over her breast as she toyed with an iron brooch and pursed her lips fretfully. _I must call the doctor._

“Thomas,” Elsie said, more to herself than to anyone else, “You’re frightening me.” 

“I’m sorry I don’t mean to to do that.” Thomas said, and it was spoken with such sincerity and kindness that Elsie could hardly recognize it when compared to Thomas’ normal steely drawl. Elsie gaped at him, amazed at his change in character. At his smiles, and his sweetness. At his… flippancy. Like nothing could matter, even if half the world were on fire. 

Thomas laughed, tickled by her expression. It started off small, a bubble in his throat, but suddenly he was holding himself around the middle and laughing so hard that his clammy cheeks were turning pink. 

Elsie had never heard him laugh before; it was a gay lilt, a happy tune that revealed nothing in regards to his turmoil and fears. 

It scared her more than his smiles and lack of lucidness- that laugh should not have existed. Not without good reason. To hear it bouncing around was akin to hearing a bomb go off. Elsie almost wanted to clap a hand over his mouth. To sooth him, to calm him, until he calmed down and sobered up. 

“Thomas Barrow!” 

Elsie, Anna, and John all looked around, taken aback by the arrival of Phyllis Baxter and Joseph Moseley. Phyllis was horrified, her weathered face stretching in pain as she rushed around the table past Anna and Elsie to take Thomas by the shoulders to hold him still. 

“What are you doing?” Phyllis demanded, shaking Thomas lightly by the shoulders as if to rouse him from a deep slumber though he was wide awake and laughing like mad. 

“A good question.” John said aloud, though no one answered him back. 

“Get back upstairs.” Phyllis begged, trying to pull Thomas up from his chair. It was utterly no use, he was surely thirty pounds heavier than her and several inches taller. “You’re going to fall out in front of everyone- You shouldn’t even be awake, and you got down five flights of stairs?!” 

Phyllis gaped at everyone, begging for answer that wouldn’t come. 

“Took me a good hour to get you up them yesterday.” John agreed bitterly, shifting his weight upon his cane out of reflex. 

“D’you braid your hair too?” Thomas spoke up merrily, looking straight up at Phyllis so that his neck popped. Elsie winced in spite of herself. “I wonder if Margie braids her hair. I wonder how you do it? Like do you… do you use a comb?” 

Phyllis just stared, brown eyes wide with awareness of every move that Thomas made. Thomas shuddered violently, head falling limp upon his neck so that Elsie momentarily feared he’d fainted. But he was still moving, still mumbling. His face was growing white, his lips practically blue from black of blood as his eyes fluttered. His hands were limp upon the table, no longer tapping out a beat. 

Elsie didn’t know what was more frightening, when he moved or when he grew still. 

“Thomas-“ Phyllis almost perched herself upon the table as she came around Thomas’ side to grasp his sweating face in both her hands. She stared deep into his eyes, trying to keep contact for as long as possible. “Do you know where you are?” 

Thomas eyes closed; Phyllis smacked him lightly upon the cheek several times until his eyes opened again. John was raking a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. Anna just kept pursing her lips tighter. Joseph kept looking nervously over his shoulder back down the hallway to Charlie’s sitting room. 

“His eyes are purple.” Thomas whispered throatily, an incredibly sober statement compared to the babble of braiding hair. Elsie was almost certain she knew who he was speaking about. “He… Purple in the… Everywhere I go.” 

Phyllis bit her lip, still cupping his face in her hands. 

“Mr. Barrow?” 

Charlie had appeared, utterly affronted at Thomas state of undress. He cut a wide path through the cluster of the upper ten, fuming as Thomas (from force of habit or fear) leapt right out his chair to stand up at attention. His chair nearly fell back, niggling upon his legs at his wild shift of weight as he slammed both hands upon the table and forced his back unnervingly straight. 

“Oh wow-“ Thomas suddenly blurted out, cutting across whatever Charlie had been about to see. “That’s colorful-“ 

Thomas shuddered again, hair falling into his face and obscuring his eyes, “The-the things m’seein’.” 

His head dropped down, his breath growing labored again. Charlie had yet to speak, gaping at Thomas’ abysmal state. 

Elsie caught his eye. Charlie gestured from Thomas to Elsie as if to say _‘What is going on here?’._ Elsie shook her head; even if she knew, she doubted she could have told him. 

She was afraid- plum afraid of what might come next. 

“Can’t count 'cept for in fives…” Thomas whispered, “Tigers in the park and all that drawl.” 

“Are you completely insane?” Charlie demanded, his voice coming back to him at long last. 

“Y’may’ ‘im liv-“ Thomas stuttered, making absolutely no sense- it was as if his words were a broken record upon a faulty gramophone. Whatever had originally been upon the disk was long forgotten, leaving only jumbled and cracked words that no one could understand. 

“Thomas-“ John spoke up, voice wary as he reached out with his good hand to try and touch Thomas despite the table being between them. 

But it was far too late. 

Thomas keeled over backwards, legs going out from under him and taking him straight down even as Phyllis tried to catch him and Elsie threw out a hand to stop his fall. He slipped through both their fingers, and upon hitting the floor knocked two chairs on their sides so that the clatter was enormous and enough to draw attention from all corners of the downstairs. Anna cried out in fear and surprise, a hand jumping from her throat to her mouth as she took several steps back to keep from being hit by Thomas as he fell. He was now sprawled upon the floor, dripping in sweat and trembling violently, each breath haggard and labored in his chest. 

“Oh my god-“ Elsie took to her knees as quickly as she could in her many skirts; even as she moved, she called out orders, years of experience in command urging her to act and quickly. 

“Mr. Moseley, ring for Dr. Clarkson, tell him to come here at once.” Elsie ordered; Moseley gave a curt nod of the head, stepping around John who was now raking a hand down his face with a groan of sheer exhaustion to jog clear down the hall. Charlie came around the table, grabbing both chairs that had fallen and righting them to scoot them back from the table, making a strange area for Thomas to lay in that was absent of hazardous objects. His glare was far from softened. 

“Thomas!” Phyllis was begging for a response and getting none, shaking Thomas by the shoulders and popping him hard in the cheek. Thomas merely jiggled with her touch, head lolling about on his shoulders against the cold stone floor. 

“Is this a mad house?” Charlie demanded. 

“Don’t be unkind.” Elsie urged from the floor, shooting Charlie an admonishing look, “You know he’s not well-“ 

“No, no.” Charlie seemed to realize himself, running a hand heavily over his jaw as he sighed and looked down on Thomas with softened irritation; before he could say anymore, however, the first of the bells began to ring. “Naturally!” He barked bitterly, for now of all times when chaos reigned, the family called. 

“I’ll go.” Anna said, stepping around John and the growing cluster of hall boys who were now gaping by the doorway. 

The second bell rang- her ladyship. Elsie looked from the bells to Phyllis, impatient but not unkind. 

“Go, Ms. Baxter.” Elsie ordered, “I’ll look after him.” 

Phyllis did not want to go. Elsie was momentarily strung with a pang of empathy for her, taking emotional comfort in how Phyllis clearly cared for Thomas as a sister might for a brother. She had mentioned they’d grown up together. Still Phyllis remained on her knees, looking from Thomas to the bells on the wall in a panic. 

“Ms. Baxter!” Carson snapped, “Now!” 

“I- oh!” Phyllis grieved, getting to her feet to inch around Thomas’ head lest she accidentally kick him with her heeled shoe to run out the door. As she left, John came around the table, taking her place by Elsie’s side as he slowly (if not warily) took to his good knee and laid his cane carefully upon the floor. He reached out, shaking Thomas by the shoulder. Still Thomas did not wake. 

“Thomas?” John called out, loudly and clearly, “Thomas are we in the land of the living-?” 

Thomas did not answer. 

“No we are not.”John griped. Elsie was no longer comfortable with Thomas’ head being lolled about on the floor like a child’s cricket ball, and reached out with both hands to raise his head a good inch or so off the floor to lay it experimentally upon her lap. He was remarkably heavy, heavier than she’d imagined, and the weight of his head pinched at her ailing knees. 

The next bell rang- his lordship. John looked over his shoulder with an irritable sigh. 

“That’s you too.” Elsie said, sympathetically. John grabbed his cane from the floor, using the combined leverage of its end and the edge of the table to get back off his good knee and onto his two feet again. Years ago, such a move would have been impossible for John to pull off- it was a mark of how far he’d come that he was able to do so now. 

“I’ll go.” John agreed, rounding the table. “Let me know if there’s something I can do, Mr. Carson.” he called over his shoulder as he exited the servant’s hall. 

“Yes!” Charlie snapped as John left, “Avoid fainting!” 

It was rather rude of him to say, but this whole trial was undoubtably taxing to Charlie. The pair of them required order and calm to do their job well, and Thomas Barrow passed out high on the servant’s hall floor was decidedly _neither._

Things only got worse when Daisy walked into the room, a plate of fresh toast in one hand and a pot of tea in the other. 

“Where’s everyone gone?” She asked, utterly confused as to why the loaded breakfast table was empty of diners save for Charlie and Elsie; she blanched at the sight of a pair of naked feet sticking out from underneath the vacant table. 

She set down both the toast and teapot, mindless to how Charlie called out to her and tried to stop her as she passed. Daisy scooted around the edge of the table, her face elevating into a high state of panic as she saw Thomas unconscious upon the floor. 

“Daisy-“ Charlie warned again, reaching a sizable hand out to her in an attempt to keep her at bay. But Daisy had already dropped to her knees, reaching out to take Thomas’ face in her hands. She soothed his brow, petted the sweat away, trembling as she brushed jet black hair out of his face. 

 

“Thomas!” Daisy called out to him, desperate for an answer though Thomas gave her none, “Thomas what’s happened to you?” She pressed her hand to his forehead, keeping it still there to abate the heat she’d found. 

“His head is on fire.” Daisy said; Elsie tried to give her a reassuring smile but Daisy wouldn’t meet her eye- she was focused solely on Thomas now, trying to rouse him from his bizarre state. 

“Don’t fret over it, Daisy-“ Elsie urged, wishing she could simply ferret the girl off and send her on her way. Daisy was like a daughter to her, a delightful creature full of smiles and warmth, but like an irritated mother Elsie had her limits as to what nonsense she’d stand for- Daisy making a spectacle of herself over Thomas when he was so obviously of a different persuasion was a deep line in the sand. 

“How can you tell me not to fret over it when I love him?” Daisy demanded. 

Charlie made a noise of disapproval, one that Elsie could not help but commend him for. It was difficult to say whether he was irritable because Daisy was in love with Thomas or because she was simply saying it to boastfully without a care in the world. Either way he and Elsie were of the same mindset. 

“We’ve rung for the doctor, that’s all that can be done.” Elsie said, though she added at once, “And you mustn’t say such things so openly Daisy. This is a working house, not a dance hall- we don’t have room for such flamboyant displays of affection.” 

Heaven only knows if they’d had room for such moments of insanity the servant’s hall would have been a different place. Moseley would no doubt be singing Baxter love songs while John and Anna shared the same chair, curled about each others laps. As for Thomas, he’d have been feeding Jimmy Kent fruit, chin in hand and a blissful smile upon his face as Jimmy ate right off his fingers and flashed him flirty winks. 

As for Charlie… who was to say. He might have offered to sing Elsie a round of _My Gal Sal._

_Thank god we’re in England, where common sense is King._ Elsie thought with a bitter refrain, though she couldn’t help glancing at Thomas passed out on the floor all the same, _Well… almost King._

“He could hardly change out of a shirt last night.” Daisy was saying, though she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular as she pressed her hand to Thomas’ neck where beads of sweat were forming. “How did he get all the way down here by himself?” 

Elsie eyed Daisy warily. What would she know about Thomas changing out of his shirts? 

_If you’ve seen him topless I’ll take you both over my knee,_ Elsie thought vindictively, watching with narrowed eyes as Daisy brushed another bead of sweat off beneath Thomas’ proud chin. 

“I imagined he walked.” Elsie said. Daisy pursed her lips, still too focused on gazing adoringly at Thomas to meet Elsie’s eye. 

Moseley returned, sweating a little as he pulled at his starched bowtie. 

“Dr. Clarkson is on his way.” Moseley said. Charlie nodded with satisfaction, “He’ll be here as soon as he can.” 

“Thank you Mr. Moseley-“ Elsie said from the floor, pausing as she saw Daisy reach for Thomas’ tie. 

No. There would be _none_ of that. 

“Daisy, fetch me a cold rag.” Elsie ordered. Daisy stopped at once, rising up off the floor to step over Thomas so that he was momentarily covered by her skirts. She ran for the kitchen past the gaggle of hall boys that were still crowding the door with mixed looks of confusion and fear. 

“For heavens sake.” Elsie barked with a little more force than she ought to have, “Sit down and have your breakfast all of you or it’ll go cold- Mr. Moseley you too.” 

Moseley shuffled to his seat as did the hall boys, all of them looking incredibly uncertain. Despite her command, Charlie remained by her side, eyes flitting from Thomas to Elsie in turn. 

_I know you care about him._ Elsie thought vindictively, _Even if you don’t want to admit it._

Daisy was back with a rag in hand, stepping around the now sitting hall boys to squat down by Elsie and lay the rag over Thomas’ forehead. 

“What if this is some kind of side effect?” Daisy murmured as she wiped his brow, “Of the therapy and what not?” 

Elsie’s eyebrows shot up; good _lord_ did Daisy know about the electrotherapy? 

“How did you know about that?” She demanded in a shock; Charlie was bristling, distinctly uncomfortable as he was apt to do every time that Thomas’… persuasions… were brought up. 

“Thomas told me.” Daisy said, and the lack of concern upon her face was so disconcerting that Elsie was temporarily robbed of a snappy comeback, “Sort of.” Daisy added after a moment, “He wouldn’t tell me everything.” 

“No, I imagine he wouldn’t have.” Elsie muttered. If he had, Elsie doubted Daisy would be so eager to boast her love for him. Yet even as she opened her mouth again to ask Daisy what _in particular_ Thomas had said, the sound of the back doorbell ringing cut her off. 

“Oh!” She looked up to Charlie, “That’ll be Dr. Clarkson with luck-“ 

“I’ll get it.” Charlie assured them all even as Moseley rose up to fetch the door. “You finish your breakfast.” 

Moseley sat back down, gobbling down eggs as fast as he could before Charlie changed his mind. 

For a moment there was only quiet as Daisy dampened Thomas brow and Elsie cradled his head between her knees, then several pairs of feet broke the silence and Charlie was back flanked by a man on either side. One was Dr. Clarkson, slightly tired looking from the early hour- the other was a strapping youth that looked capable of wrestling an ox into submission. Both were wearing white coats, and Elsie realized the youth must be Dr. Clarkson’s assistant. 

“Dr. Clarkson!” Elsie called out to him; he came around the table at once, setting his medical bag down on the floor to take to a knee. His assistant followed, rolling up his coat sleeves. “We’re sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning.” 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Hughes.” Dr. Clarkson assured her, reaching out to take Thomas’ pulse at his jugular. “I was already out the door on my way to make rounds. John happened to catch the phone.” Dr. Clarkson nodded to his assistant who gave Elsie a cheery smile. She wondered how old the boy might be, surely no older than twenty five. Daisy was suddenly in the way, unsure of where to put herself between the pinched space of Elsie, Charlie, Dr. Clarkson and his assistant all vying to get a good look at Thomas. Elsie took the rag from her with care, replacing it back on Thomas’ sweating forehead. 

“Daisy, hurry along-“ Elsie urged. “Back to the kitchen.” 

“I- but-!” Daisy protested, wide eyed and fretful as she prostrated herself to the four of them, “But what if he needs m-“ 

“I promise you we’ve got this handled.” Dr. Clarkson assured Daisy, though he gave her a bizarre quirk of the eyebrow. 

_Oh how I’d love to tell you everything,_ Elsie thought miserably, _But then you’d cart Thomas off to an asylum and Jimmy Kent would hang us all the minute he found out._

“Mr. Moseley, upstairs-“ Charlie urged, gesturing for the stairwell as he stepped around Dr. Clarkson’s assistant to exit the hall. “We’ll make no less time without Mr. Barrow- and I want you hall boys to start on the silver the minute the clock strikes a quarter till.“ 

Moseley gave up his eggs at once, dabbing hastily at the corner of his mouth a napkin before dashing out of the hall. Charlie caught Elsie’s eye over the mess of it all. 

“Let me know-“ He began but Elsie waved him off even as he spoke. 

“Yes, yes, of course.” Elsie assured him, “You know I will.” and Charlie wasted no more time before heading up the stairs with Moseley in tow. Elsie watched as Dr. Clarkson reached out to tap Thomas repeatedly in the jaw, trying to stir him. He was close to slapping him with the force of his blows. “Will he be alright?” Elsie asked nervously when Thomas didn’t come to. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Dr. Clarkson spoke loudly in a commanding tone, “Thomas, can you hear me?” Dr. Clarkson bent his head forward, a hand at Thomas’ jugular again as he listen to Thomas breathing. 

Dr. Clarkson sat back up, looking slightly troubled. 

“Lay him flat on his back.” Dr. Clarkson commanded, and the assistant at once helped Elsie to scoop Thomas’ head from her lap to lay him back down upon the floor. She place her hands upon his temples, unsure of what else to do as Thomas remained still and silent. The assistant elevated Thomas’ knees, keeping his feet flat upon the floor as Dr. Clarkson loosened his bowtie. A little more color flushed back into Thomas’ face though he was still sweating profusely. 

“Thomas!” Dr. Clarkson shouted, and the force of it made Elsie jump a little as Dr. Clarkson clapped his hands loudly in front of Thomas’ face. Thomas stirred, just a little bit, moaning as he did so, and though his eyes fluttered for a second he did not wake and remained pathetically still. 

“Right. John?” Dr. Clarkson commanded. The assistant seemed to know instinctively what to do as he perched on one knee to scoop Thomas up under the knees and behind the neck. Thomas was close to six feet tall, and surely heavy enough to be a bother, but the assistant was so strong and straight backed that he lifted Thomas up without a care in the world, all muscle as he clambered to his feet. Dr. Clarkson went with him, careful that Thomas’ head didn’t hit any objects on the way up. Elsie was grateful for the hand Dr. Clarkson offered her; at her age getting down on her knees was hardly a pleasurable task. 

“We’ll need to lay him down, preferably in his room.” Dr. Clarkson said, “The less he’s moved, the better.” 

“I’ll go with you”, Elsie said. Dr. Clarkson lead the way, no stranger to the Abbey. 

They moved upstairs as quick as they could, maids with laundry and hall boys with silver skirting around them as Dr. Clarkson’s assistant carried Thomas like he were no more trouble than a child up five flights of stairs. Dr. Clarkson kept checking over his shoulder, eyes locked on Thomas’ head like he half expected Thomas to knock into the banister or opposite wall. By the time they’d reached the top, a light sheen of sweat had formed on the assistant’s brow, and Elsie felt decidedly sorry for him as she opened the door to Thomas’ room. It was mercifully devoid of an embarrassing clutter, the only sign of confusion in the pair of unlaced boots laying at the foot of Thomas’ bed. Clearly he’d given them up for a lost cause on his way out. 

Elsie grabbed the edge of Thomas’ threadbare coverlet, pulling it back to reveal his unmade bed, and the assistant at once laid Thomas down so that his head was once more cradled upon a pillow and not an unforgiving floor. The assistant took care in setting Thomas legs upon the bed, keeping his knees bent at an angle for better blood floor as Dr. Clarkson took Thomas' livery jacket off to fold it several times and place it beneath his head for elevation. Elsie waited behind him, anxious as she clasped her hands, eager for something to do. She picked up Thomas boots, tucking them beneath his bed so that he would not stumble over them if he rose up again, and then made to refold a red quilt that was absently covering a threadbare armchair. When she pulled it off, however, she noted that the fabric of the armchair was a hideous floral print that Thomas had obviously been trying to hide with the blanket. 

There was a brown glass bottle tucked into the corner of the seat and arm. Elsie reached down to pick it up as she dropped the red blanket. It was a pill bottle, devoid of a label that had clearly been ripped… 

“Oh!” Elsie said aloud, eyes flying wide with realization. 

Joseph Moseley had found a ripped label- it seemed Elsie had now found the bottle. She offered it over to Dr. Clarkson at once who was opening his medic bag to pull out a stethoscope. He paused, glancing up at Elsie to take the bottle curiously from her grip. 

“These are the pills he’s been taking.” Elsie said. 

Dr. Clarkson pursed his lips, running his fingers over the white fuzz where the label had once been. He opened the cap, and upon attempting to dump the pills into his hand he found that only one was left in the bottle. 

He observed it, rolling it about in his palm before putting it back in the bottle and screwing on the lid. 

“Do you know what he’s taking these for? What symptoms specifically-?” Dr. Clarkson asked. 

“I didn’t know he was taking them at all until Ms. Baxter alerted me.” Elsie admitted, “What are they?” 

“God only knows.” Dr. Clarkson put the bottle in his bag for safe keeping, slipping on the ear buds of his stethoscope to unbutton the top clasps of Thomas’ wrinkled shirt. “Some charlatan drug, no doubt. But if he’s been taking them I’ll have to flush his system.” 

Dr. Clarkson listened to Thomas’ heart, his eyes narrowing with knowing as he pulled back and took off his stethoscope. He replaced it in his bag, taking out a leather cased kit to prepare a syringe waiting inside. 

“I have a feeling the pills have inspired this change in him.” Dr. Clarkson said, reaching into his back to pull out a large clear bottle stoppered and full of an opaque fluid. He loaded the syringe, tapping for errant bubbles. His assistant reached out to prepare Thomas’ arm, baring the heavy veins in the crook of Thomas’ right elbow and holding his arm straight. 

“Should he be taken to the hospital?” Elsie asked, thinking of how Thomas had babbled and sweated in delirium not even half an hour ago. 

“Not yet.” Dr. Clarkson assured her, putting the vial back in his bag to pull out another vial full of a milky fluid. He prepared another significantly smaller syringe; Elsie could not help but purse her lips at the needles. 

She couldn’t bear the sight of needles, the knowing of the pain that they brought. 

“But we might depending upon how the day fairs.” He caught Elsie’s eye, the slightest bit irritated so that the edges of his white mustache quivered with each huff he gave, “I cannot pretend I’m pleased by this turn of events, particularly when he’s already come to me to have an abscess drained for the same reason. I suppose some people cannot run to death fast enough.” 

The image of Thomas in a bare coffin being laid down in soggy ground crossed Elsie’s mind. It would be a tiny funeral; no family would be present. Jimmy would not be there. 

“Don’t say that Dr. Clarkson.” Elsie begged, the image incredibly disturbing to her. Suddenly she thought of her own funeral and who all might be there. 

She would die with her father’s name, unloved by a man. Elsie shuddered. 

“Please.” She added at the concerned look upon Dr. Clarkson’s normally benign face. 

“I don’t mean to alarm you, Mrs. Hughes. I apologize.” Dr. Clarkson said, turning a little upon Thomas’ bed to take up the smaller of the two needles. He injected Thomas in the bared vein of his elbow; Thomas winced his head shifting upon the pillow. “If it’s any consolation to you I don’t think a bomb could knock Thomas off his feet.” 

“No.” Elsie said bitterly as Dr. Clarkson capped the first needle to put it back in his bag. He injected Thomas with the second needle, a decidedly larger object that made Thomas emit the tiniest moan of pain, “Just Jimmy Kent.” 

“To each his own.” Was all Clarkson said. 

Upon the bed, Thomas twisted, trying to move his arm away; the assistant held him tight so that despite how Thomas writhed his arm lay flat and still as Clarkson slowly injected him with the clear liquid. 

“Jimmy stop…” Thomas moaned. 

A second or two later Clarkson was finished, his second needle empty and Thomas’ breathing lighter. He pulled back, taking the second needle with him, and placed it back in his bag to pull out several rolls of taped gauze along with a thick white paste in a heavy black jar. Clarkson unscrewed it’s copper lid, showing the contents to Elsie. She took note and nodded; Clarkson set the jar upon Thomas’ bedside table alongside the rolls of gauze. 

“For the burns.” Clarkson explained. “Should he wake before I return tonight.” 

“Of course.” Elsie said. 

“He’ll need to rest-“ 

“I’ll see that that.” Elsie assured him, for she was determined to keep Thomas in bed this time and away from the servant’s table, “If I have to tie him to the bed.” 

“Knowing Barrow, you just might.” Clarkson could not help but joke, rising up off the bed so that the assistant pulled Thomas’ coverlet up over his body, clothes and all. Thomas was no longer moving, well and truly asleep instead of fevered and delusional. Dr. Clarkson took his bag up, closing its snaps to dip his head in a gentlemanly fashion. “I’ll be taking the pills with me, I won’t have him poisoning himself on my watch.” 

“Please do.” Elsie snapped with no small amount of bitterness. “Get them out of this house.” 

“With pleasure.” Dr. Clarkson said, and without another word he exited Thomas’ bedroom to head back downstairs. Elsie smiled at the assistant as he passed, noting that the youth wiped errantly at his brow and the back of his neck. 

“See if Daisy can’t fix you up with a cup of tea for your trouble.” Elsie urged the assistant, “You’ve done your fair share of heavy lifting today.” 

“Ah he weren’t too heavy.” The assistant assured her with a smile, his Irish brogue pleasantly reminding her of Tom Branson, “Easier than carrying Mrs. Dawner. She’s seven months along and kicks like a mule.” 

Elsie could not help but snort softly as the assistant left. 

~*~

He felt heavy, like he was under water, or perhaps a very large rock. He was warm, his legs heavy and his chest numb, but his arm hurt like hell and his head felt like someone had taken a cricket bat to it. Thomas had woken up to worse, had woken up to his entire body feeling like it was on fire or shattered like glass instead of just his upper half… but something was niggling in his mind. 

Something was on the fringes of his memory, begging him to take heed and warning, but Thomas couldn’t for the life of him recall _what._

Why did his arm hurt so badly, right at the crook of his inner elbow? He’d been burned around his forearm (and to be fair that only ached in a dull continual throb)- something wasn’t right. 

Something was _not_ right. 

There were voices in his room.  
Thomas eyes snapped open. 

It was dark, which disturbed him because the last time he’d woken up it had been dark as well and Daisy had been kissing him on the lips. He had no way of knowing if it was the same night, or the next night, and the idea that he had slept twenty four hours was frankly quite disturbing to him. 

_I mean, I knew I needed a nap, but shit!_

Worst of all (near the top of a long list of ‘worst of all’s), his room was now occupied by four other people, none of whom he wanted to be there. Carson and Hughes, side by side, each looking disturbed as they watched Thomas shift restlessly in his cot. John Bates, who looked ready to fall over- clearly exhausted after a long days work. Dr. Clarkson, who was the most irritated of the four with narrowed eyes and a firmly set mouth. 

_Fuck._

He tried to sit up at once, though his limbs floundered and he could barely pull himself up an inch without his head feeling like it was swimming. His heart pounded, panic rising up within him as he looked from one face to the next, trying to figure out what had happened to make them all come visit him at the same time. Dr. Clarkson has been called earlier, or so Daisy claimed- maybe he was just coming back to check up. But why bring Bates? Why bring Carson or Hughes? Mrs. Hughes raised a friendly hand, waving him off as Thomas tried to sit up better in bed again. 

“There’s no need for that, Thomas.” She assured him, and she did not sound unkind. Thomas stilled, perched against his iron headboard- he ran a shaky hand through his hair. 

He was dripping with sweat, and pulled back his hand to observe the glimmer of perspiration upon his palm. It sparkled like powdered glass in the light of his bedside lamp. Thomas rubbed the back of his neck, likewise finding it soaked. 

_Christ what the hell is wrong with me?_ He thought fearfully. 

“What…” Thomas began, the inevitable question of ‘what are you doing here’ but changed to, “What time is it?” 

“It’s half past ten.” Mrs. Hughes was once again the one to answer him, lacing her fingers upon her midriff to toy with her keys as she spoke, “You’ve been sleeping all day. How do you feel?” 

_I feel like screaming,_ Thomas wanted to say. His answer fell still in his mouth as he continued to rub the back of his neck; he wished he could force his heart to calm but it was impossible with Carson glaring at him and Bates looking ready to topple over. As the silence continued to press on, Dr. Clarkson took the lead, clearly eager to get this visit over with and on with his life. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Dr. Clarkson greeted him. 

“Doctor.” Thomas ground out, unable to keep down the wave of irritation that always flashed within him whenever he was forced to contend with Clarkson. 

_“Thomas, are you there?”_ he could hear Edward calling out in fear. 

_Yes, Edward,_ Thomas thought even as he lay propped against his headboard facing an uncertain future with a splitting headache. His eyes flashed to the bureau, to Edward’s picture atop it. _Yes, I’m here._

“I surmise you know why I’m here.” Dr. Clarkson said, sounding none too pleased. Unfortunately for Clarkson, Thomas gave so little of a shit that the number was in the negatives. At this point, Clarkson _owed_ him a shit. 

“My health is my personal business.” Thomas snapped. Dr. Clarkson had already been to see him once though he’d been out cold. What on earth could he want this time? 

“So I would agree.” Dr. Clarkson began precariously, “But It’s also the business of your employer who has called me here today-“ 

“His lordship is aware of this?!” Thomas demanded in a start, his blood suddenly running cold, but Dr. Clarkson was shaking his head and Thomas let out a breath. Carson raised a bushy eyebrow.

“He will be made aware if things deteriorate further.” Dr. Clarkson warned, which Thomas snorted at. Dr. Clarkson narrowed his eyes, “I’ve been told that you’re still taking pills, and have recently received electroshock therapy. Is this correct?” 

He didn’t know who was the worst to endure this conversation in front of. Carson already thought him a deviant homosexual. Bates was on shaky terms with him and still forging a friendship. Mrs. Hughes… 

Thomas looked down at his coverlet. 

Mrs. Hughes thought better of him, thought him above all this madness.  
He wished he could prove her right. 

_Thomas,_ he could hear Edward’s voice in his head. _Are you there?_

Thomas’ visitors were waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to acknowledge the bitter awful truth. 

_Yes, Edward._ Thomas thought again, _Yes, I’m here._

He glared at Dr. Clarkson. 

“And if it is?” Thomas tried for an uncaring air, but his voice still came out rather hard. Dr. Clarkson gave him a smile that was a mixture between a grimace and a smirk- something that seemed to insist Thomas was one of the stupidest creatures alive, and one that Dr. Clarkson continuously expected to blunder about time and time again. As if he were a dumb farm animal that ought to be pitied and examined in the name of science. 

Thomas’ nostrils flared in a rush of anger. 

_Bet you’d like that,_ he raged internally, his hatred for Clarkson growing by the second, _Bet you’d love to get a man like me on your operating table. Bet you’d crack open me brain just to see what it looked like- bet you'd think it’d look different from a normal man’s._

“Are you having muscle stiffness, fevers, confusion…?” Dr. Clarkson asked. 

Thomas did not dignify the question with an answer, his jaw locked as he glared at Dr. Clarkson. Hughes looked particularly disturbed now, watching his face just fall heavier and heavier into anger with an air of motherly concerned. 

But Thomas’ own mother had never been concerned about Thomas’ temper. Indeed, she’d egged him on half the time, urging him to stand up for himself (particularly against his father). One time Phyllis Baxter had been visiting Margret, something simple- they were playing with dolls in the living room and Thomas hadn’t cared a whit. He’d hidden beneath the kitchen sink, trying to read the story about the adventurous valet his mother had read to him while he’d been ill. The words had been difficult, far too difficult for Thomas to fully comprehend at the tender age of five, and so instead he’d simply mouthed the words out in the dark under the sink. His father had been highly irritated that Thomas had not wanted to entertain Phyllis Baxter, not wanted to dance before her like a puppet on a string. Thomas had just wanted to read, had begged his father to let him be. His father had snatched the book from Thomas’ hands, and for some reason upon reading the title had become irate- he’d cracked Thomas over the head with heavy volume, shouting at the top of his lungs that _“Reading women’s trash is not becoming of a young man!”_

Thomas had begun to cry, because the book had been far from trash- it had been his mother’s and his mother did not read trash. He’d told his father so, had screamed it at him; his father had slapped him for the taunt. 

He’d never liked it when Thomas had used his mother against him in an argument. 

But then his mother had appeared, had come right out of no where to scoop Thomas off of the floor and into her understanding arms- had snagged her book from his father before storming to the room Thomas had shared with Margret and slamming the door behind her. She’d sat with Thomas upon his shared cot, rubbing his back and soothing him even as he’d cried into her neck. 

_“You don’t read trash!”_ he’d bawled, hot and angry tears spilling down his stinging cheeks. His father’s slap had felt like a brand being pressed into his flesh, as if every stranger on the street would be able to look at him and simply know he was a disappointment. 

_“It’s hardly Dickens.”_ his mother had tutted to him, even as he’d cried into her blouse, _“But I'm proud of you for sticking up for yourself. You must do that more often, dear. Never let someone talk down to you just because they don’t like what you’re reading.”_

_“But he doesn’t like me!”_ Thomas squalled, _“He’ll never like me! It’s got nothin’ t’do with the book! Nobody ever likes me!”_

His mother had been like a cocoon for him to take refuge in, his wings forming- the bones hard as rock and forged in her words. 

_“Then let them not like you.”_ She’d whispered in his ear, _“And let them be the worse off for it.”_

“Thomas?” 

Thomas was snapped from his daydream, coming back to himself to see Bates giving him an expectant look. Carson was close to snapping, irritated that Thomas was not conforming. Mrs. Hughes was no longer afraid, simply sympathetic as Dr. Clarkson and Carson seethed. 

_“Then let them not like you.”_ Thomas heard his mother’s words. _“And let them be the worse off for it.”_

“I’m not in the mood for receiving your company-“ Thomas warned, “Why don’t you come back for tea later.” 

He’d expected a huff, a sneer, a taunt, something sharp and hard to be flung at him verbally (or physically). But instead Mrs. Hughes broke rank from the other three to walk around Thomas’ coveted armchair to perch herself by his headboard. Thomas was shocked when she laid a hand upon his shoulder- shocked to the point of silence as she rubbed at the stiff muscle with a wrinkled but strong thumb. 

“I know you’re not feeling your best.” Mrs. Hughes said consolingly, “But after this morning, you gave us all quite a fright. We need to talk about what to do next.” 

Thomas blinked, his heart skipping a beat. 

“W-what happened this morning?” He stuttered, his mind reeling as he desperately scrambled with his memory. He couldn’t remember anything- his mind was a blank and it terrified him. 

Carson did not look amused. 

“I find it hard to believe that you don’t remember your earlier antics.” Carson warned. “And I suggest that you come up with an adequate explanation or you’ll find yourself-“ But Hughes raised a hand in warning, her finger pointed, and Carson instantly fell silent. The two of them were engaged in a mute battle now, going back and forth without a word as Hughes held her ground and Carson raged. 

Dr. Clarkson, oddly enough, was actually starting to smile. 

“I find it easy to believe.” Dr. Clarkson assured Carson, who looked quite deflated and irritable, “Given that he swallowed enough opium to kill a labrador.” 

_What._

Thomas gaped, looking up at Mrs. Hughes for an explanation- she was still glaring at Carson. Thomas looked at Carson and found him equally engaged with Mrs. Hughes. Thomas looked to Bates, his eyes widening as Bates nodded in agreement. 

Dear christ, what on earth- how had Thomas even come across that much opium-? Had Daisy given it to him? Thomas made a slew of garbled noises, desperately trying to come up with a solution. 

“What is the last thing you remember?” Dr. Clarkson asked him. 

Thomas shuddered, his rage and heavy dislike for Dr. Clarkson dampened in his desperation to understand just what had happened. 

“I- I was…” 

_Daisy kissing him-_  
_Daisy leaving-_  
_Darkness._

Thomas paled. 

“I-“ Thomas stuttered, desperate to come up with and adequate lie that did not involve him kissing Daisy without his shirt on while in bed. His heart was pounding in his chest, a cold sweat dripping down his temple as he shook beneath Mrs. Hughe’s hand. She would be able to feel the tremor running through his body; he wouldn’t be able to deny it if she asked. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas blurted out, “I was in bed.” 

“Do you remember what time it was?” Dr. Clarkson asked. 

“L-late.” Thomas stuttered, “Near midnight- what happened this morning?” He demanded. “Tell me what happened!” 

“You came downstairs to the servants hall very early.” Mrs. Hughes informed him in a gentle voice, as if he were a psyche ward patient that couldn’t handle a scolding tone, “You suffered a fit in front of the others.” 

“You kept asking people about braiding their hair.” Bates added with slightest humor. Mrs. Hughes gave him a dark look, clearly under the impression that jokes were not the call of the hour. Bates raised a hand in modest surrender as Thomas wilted underneath Carson’s irritated gaze. 

“A- a fit?” Thomas asked. 

“You fainted.” Dr. Clarkson replied. “I had you brought back to your room- I gave you a solution of saline and Diazepam for your withdrawal. I was going to do a regency test on your bottle of pills- or should I say your single pill-“ Dr. Clarkson added darkly, sticking his hand into his pocket to pull out a faded scrap of white paper that Thomas clarified as the very same label he’d ripped off his pill bottle in the event of someone finding it, “but Ms. Baxter was all too happy to give me this label… and I realized at once what had happened.” 

An ugly silence had fallen. Thomas shook wildly, reaching behind himself to slowly grip at the iron bars of his headboard. His palms were wet with sweat, his nostrils and chin quivering without pause as he took, shuddering breathes. 

“It is my belief,” Dr. Clarkson said in a sickeningly calm voice, “That you took a large amount of these pills- which are opium, I might add-“Dr. Clarkson gestured with the label, “Though I’m unsure whether it was a suicide attempt or not-“ 

“It wasn’t!” Thomas barked at once. Dr. Clarkson did not flinch. 

“Either way…” Dr. Clarkson carried on as if Thomas had not interrupted him with a shout, “It is my belief that you took a large amount of these pills, overdosed, and promptly suffered a string of wild hallucinations followed by a seizure. This would explain your lack of memory, your muscles spasms, and your paranoia-“ Dr. Clarkson paused, his tone turning dry, “Though to be fair you were always an anxious wreck.” 

“Shuttup!” Thomas shouted, his heart pounding his chest at the very thought. “It’s- It’s nothing like that- I had a fever that’s all-!” 

“Diazepam would have done nothing for a fever.” Dr. Clarkson warned him, “As you should know with your medic training-“ 

“You gave me saline too!” Thomas cried out, desperately trying to claw his way out the corner he’d been backed into. Dr. Clarkson kept shaking his head; Mrs. Hughes hand felt like an anvil upon his shoulder, pinning him to the bed so that he could not struggle to get away. “Saline-!” 

“Saline would have done nothing for your seizures- of which you had two.” Dr. Clarkson warned, “If you were merely fevered, as you claim, then why did you have a seizure in the servant’s hall- two of them mind you?” 

He waited for Thomas’ response with a sickening patience that made Thomas want to chuck a lamp at his head. 

“I-“ Thomas stuttered, “I don’t know, a high f-fever can result in a seizure-“ 

“Yes, correct, but you did not have a high fever.” Dr. Clarkson snapped, irritated at having medical knowledge brandished against him as a weapon, “You had a fever of 102, high but not high enough for a seizure.” 

Thomas fell silent; Mrs. Hughes rubbed at his shoulder again with her thumb. 

“I’ll well aware of your low opinion of me-“ Dr. Clarkson began, but Thomas cut across him as a rush of spite and malice cut across his tongue like glass. 

“You know nothing about it.” Thomas spat, for Dr. Clarkson no doubt thought it related to pride or some other dribble. Pride was one thing, pride had churned Thomas to fight against Bates and Carson for years- but Clarkson? No… Pride had nothing to do with Clarkson. 

“You killed him.” Thomas said, effectively stopping Clarkson dead in his tracks. Clarkson did a double take, his jaw falling a little as he glared at Thomas. 

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Clarkson was puzzled, flustering as Thomas jerked the conversation entirely away from their prior subject. 

Anything to get them off the idea of an attempted suicide. The idea made his blood run cold. 

_I’m not suicidal._ He thought feverishly. _I’m not like Edward. I don’t give up, I don’t give in. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, and I won’t let you say that I was._

“You killed him.” Thomas continued on, “You wouldn’t listen to me or Sybil-“ Thomas grimaced as Carson looked affronted at the name, but still he continued on, “You killed him. I bet you don’t even remember his name, do you? I bet you don’t even know who I’m talking about-?” 

Mrs. Hughes was trying to soothe him with two hands know, gripping Thomas on both his shoulders as if trying to anchor him back to earth. 

“Thomas, that’s not what we’re talking about right now-“ Mrs. Hughes murmured. 

But Clarkson was still thinking, his brow furrowed as he no doubt wracked his swollen brain. As his eyes drifted back up to Thomas’ sweating face, there was clear understanding in them. 

“The blinded soldier.” Clarkson murmured in sudden knowing, “The blinded soldier who committed suicide-“ 

“Do you even remember his name?” Thomas demanded. 

“Thomas-“ Bates spoke up, but he fell short at the look of indignant fury on Thomas’ face.

Clarkson pursed his lips, and when he shook his head Thomas sneered in vindictive anger. 

_I knew it._ Thomas thought triumphantly, though he was far from joyful at his victory, _I knew it you bastard._

“I confess I don’t-“ Clarkson began, but Thomas cut him off. 

“Cause I never forgot!” Thomas let go of his headboard to point proudly to his chest- his hands were shaking but he paid no mind, “I never forgot that you killed him!” 

“I had to make a decision.” Clarkson snapped, his tone picking up with anger as he crossed his arms over his chest. The label of Thomas’ pill bottle was crushed tightly in his fist. 

“You made the wrong one-!” Thomas sneered. He was rising up in bed, his back straightening as he tried to get out from underneath the covers. He didn’t know why but he suddenly wanted to fight- suddenly wanted to slam his fists into Dr. Clarkson’s face- do what he ought to have done the day that Clarkson told Edward he’d have to leave for Farlay Hall on the morning train. 

_“Please, don’t send me away-!”_ Edward had begged in a fright, desperation in his tone as he clutched at his cane and Thomas’ arm, _“Not yet-”_

“Forgive me if I was not content to leave wounded men freezing or sweating under canvas just because one junior officer was depressed-!” Dr. Clarkson’s eyes flashed. 

Thomas tried to jerk from the bed- Mrs. Hughes held him back, her hands firm upon his shoulders even as Carson started and sucked in an affronted breath. 

“He was a human being!” Thomas shouted, uncaring for how loud his voice rose in front of his so-called superiors, “He was a human being in pain as much as any other, and you ignored him because it suited your needs more than his!” 

“You are a _delusional creature._ ” Clarkson said in a scathing tone. Thomas flushed, embarrassed at the indication, “living in a fantasy because it protects you from reality-!” 

“You know nothing of my reality!” Thomas cast a wild hand aside, cutting through Dr. Clarkson’s ridiculous assumption. How could a man like Clarkson, a respected senior figure in the village with a cozy home and easy prospects at marriage to a woman if he chose, understand _Thomas’_ reality? 

“I know enough to say that you are avoiding it with pills and shocks!” Clarkson shouted right back. Thomas quailed a little underneath Mrs. Hughes’ grip- being shouted at by an older male was… unnerving to him. “It may amaze you to know that I do happen to write to medical journals-“ he said scathingly, “and I read them as well- I keep up with current developments, and I am telling you now that there is no shock, no vaccine, _no drug-!”_ Clarkson gestured angrily with the label, “That will change your situation!” 

“You’re wrong!” Thomas cried out. Clarkson rolled his eyes, letting out a seething breath of sheer irritation until Thomas continued on, “I have changed my situation! The drugs worked!” 

Clarkson dropped his fist, the label falling slightly slack in his fingers as anger fled to be replaced by sheer disbelief. 

“What?” he demanded, agog. Bates hung his head, already weary of the conversation. 

“Off and running…” Bates muttered irritably. Beside Thomas, Mrs. Hughes made a strange noise with her teeth. Carson, on the other hand, did not seem near as troubled. 

He certainly wasn’t glaring at Thomas anymore. 

“It worked! I took the pills and they worked- so put that in your bloody journal!” Thomas spat. Carson was on him at once. 

“There is no need for such foul language, Mr. Barrow!” Carson warned, his glare returning at Thomas’ slip up in etiquette. But as far as Thomas was concerned, Carson and his etiquette could kiss his arse. 

“Oh there’s every need!” Thomas seethed as Clarkson continued to look at him like he were a foreign specimen in an exotic zoo, “He killed Edward, but he won’t kill me! I won’t let him! I won’t let him say that I tried to commit suicide- that’s not me!” Thomas shook his head rapidly, “I’d never do such a thing, I’d never give up!” 

“Uh- I could have very easily killed you when you came to me the first time!” Dr. Clarkson reminded Thomas, and Thomas grimaced in irritation at a remembrance of the visit. “All I would have had to do would be to let that abscess rot into your hip!” 

Thomas flushed, looking away. 

“You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are!” Dr. Clarkson warned. Thomas’ head snapped right back up, his eyes alit with an internal flame. If there was one thing Thomas would not stand for, it was being called stupid. “Perhaps you forgot, what with your overdose and all, but you were due to receive a package today! A rather telling package from a 1606 Fulham Road- the offices of _Doctors_ Warren and Warren-“ at this Dr. Clarkson sneered rather audibly and rolled his eyes again. “You do realize-“ he added, gesturing with an angry hand, “You do realize, do you not, that they are _not_ doctors. That neither have a medical practitioners license-“ 

“You don’t know that-“ Thomas tried to say, but his voice was weak and had lost its biting edge. What package had he been due to receive? Thomas couldn’t even remember. 

“I do know that!” Dr. Clarkson boomed! Thomas wilted again, and he felt Mrs. Hughes’ hands tighten comfortingly upon his shoulders. At first they’d felt like an anvil, but now they felt like a soothing blanket and he was glad for their presence. Though he knew it was foolishness, they reminded him of his mother. “The minute I left the Abbey this morning I made a call to London, to the Royal Society of Medicine! There is no John Warren registered among them, no Ottis Warren either-!” Dr. Clarkson paused, taking a moment to smooth back his hair which had become unruffled during the process of their argument. 

“They’re charlatans. Frauds.” Dr. Clarkson’s voice was clipped but controlled, back to normal though he continued to glare at Thomas. “And I took great pleasure in reporting them for their abuse.” 

“You did what?!” Thomas demanded, thinking of that quiet corner on Fulham road and all the promise it had offered him. 

“I reported them!” Dr. Clarkson said, quite vindictively. Bates was nodding now, on the verge of looking smug in his agreement. 

“But- but they were only trying to help people-!” Thomas cried out, angry for the fate of Dr. Warren- who had offered him so many helpful suggestions even as Thomas had writhed in the chair. The electrical current had felt like fire- Dr. Warren’s voice the only real thing left in the world as the universe shrank to the confines of a single room and all the pain it could hold. 

“He was not trying to help you-“ Bates warned, but Thomas just kept right on going. If Dr. Warren’s office was out, where would he go to now? If Thomas had another relapse, who would he turn to for help? Certainly not Dr. Clarkson, not when he thought Thomas a _delusional creature_ (the bastard). 

“First Edward, now doctors, do you just delight in tormenting people?!” Thomas demanded. Dr. Clarkson did not answer straight away, eyes narrowing a little as he tilted his head to better observe Thomas shaking upon his bed. 

“Are you trying to say that your Edward Courtenay holds the same amount of worth in your eyes, the same amount of deserving, as the supposed doctor who strapped you to a chair and electrocuted you for loving Courtenay in the first place?” Dr. Clarkson asked, and there was such smugness, such satisfaction in his tone that Thomas could not take it anymore. 

He reached for the first thing he could grab- a clock that he’d made with utmost care which sat on his bedside table- and flung it hard for Dr. Clarkson. At least, he tried to, but Mrs. Hughes’ hand shot off his shoulder like a bullet and grabbed the clock before he could toss it at Clarkson. 

“Thomas!” She cried out, agog, “What on earth is wrong with you-? Give me that-“ She could not wrestle it way from him but she kept it firmly lodged in his hand instead of sailing across the room. Bates was alarmed, raising his spare hand as if he meant to catch it like a cricket ball should it escape Thomas' fist. Carson, as usual, just looked disturbed at Thomas’ antics. But Carson had never thought good of Thomas’ character anyways and the concept only made Thomas angrier. 

Clarkson did not know it, had no way of being able to understand it, but he’d just cut at a very deep nerve in Thomas’ chest. 

Edward had been such a pure and gentle light, a quiet country lad who had only ever wanted to fish and shoot, who had no doubt prowled the English countryside like the very deer he hunted. Edward had been akin to Daisy in his naivety, his innocence, despite having gone to war and being blinded by mustard gas. In a way, Thomas could put them in the same boat, could understand Edwards’ blindness in a similar way that Thomas was blind to warmth and goodness. He groped in the dark, desperately trying to find some stability in his life, but stability found him instead. Put its hand upon his knee, and shocked him from his isolation. 

Even Jimmy, whom Thomas so adored and treasured, was on a different level than Edward Courtenay. Death had immortalized Edward in Thomas’ mind as an angel that had come from heaven to bless his miserable life… even if only for a moment or two. 

Had Edward lived, Thomas would have loved him eternally. Would have been his valet and followed him all through that English wood like the characters of his mother’s favorite novel. 

To compare Edward to Dr. Warren, who had pronounced Thomas’ love for Edward as sinful and vile- Thomas couldn’t stand it. Wouldn’t stand _for_ it. 

“Shut your mouth!” Thomas howled in a rage, even though he could not feasibly throw his hand-made clock at Dr. Clarkson what with Mrs. Hughe’s hand gripping his own. The nuts and bolts pinched at the flesh of his hand, but he was numb to the pain, “You know nothing about Edward, you miserable maggot!” 

“Mr. Barrow-!” Carson boomed at once. 

“Never question a person in pain, Mr. Carson. It’s the motto of my practice” Dr. Clarkson cut Carson off even as he made to reprimand Thomas for his ugly insult. The nerve of it all- for Clarkson to calm Carson down when Clarkson was the one to make Thomas so angry! He could have had another seizure for all the rage he felt. If only he had to power to change weather, to cause something wild and destructive to happen- Thomas would have snapped his fingers and set Clarkson on fire in an instant. 

“All the same-!” Carson huffed, still quite taken aback as he regarded Thomas with newfound irritation. 

“He doesn’t mean it-“ Clarkson waved a hand at Thomas, as if Thomas were an errant harmless child have a temper tantrum instead of a full grown man on the verge of murder, “It’s a side effect of the overdose as I told you before downstairs. “He couldn’t even tell me his middle name right now.” 

“It’s Nathaniel you sack of shit!” Thomas screamed out. Mrs. Hughes dropped her arm from his shoulder, barring across his chest so that her hand was now directly upon his heart. 

She could no doubt feel its wild beat, how it pounded and jittered in Thomas’ chest like a caged bird desperate for freedom. 

Clarkson raised an eyebrow at him, unmoved by his vulgar language and wild temper. 

“Touché.” Was all he said to Thomas. Thomas fumed. 

Clarkson looked to Carson now, spoke as if Thomas was not even in the room or simply asleep and unable to respond back. 

“I suggest you keep an eye out on any mail addressed to him- particularly packages in case they try to send him any _more_ pills.” Clarkson conferred with Carson, Carson waved a hand in slight dismissal, perhaps already a step ahead of Clarkson. It only made Thomas see red. 

“You can’t just open my mail!” Thomas cried out indignantly, “What the hell is this- are we in England or not?!” 

“We could be in Buckingham Palace.” Carson said, and there was clear malice in his voice. Thomas shook beneath Mrs. Hughes’ hands, the smell of her floral perfume making him feel dizzy in his spiraling emotions. “I still wouldn’t allow you to receive opium through the mail!” 

“They- they aren’t opium!” Thomas tried for a defense. Clarkson would have none of it, smoothing out the label in his hand to thrust it forward beneath Thomas’s nose. Thomas scrambled a little in bed, suddenly very afraid of being punched by Clarkson thought a voice in the back of his brain urged him to remember that Clarkson was not his father and wouldn’t dare strike him in front of Hughes or Carson. 

“Read the label!” Clarkson demanded. “What is the first ingredient?” 

Thomas swallowed; his mouth suddenly incredibly dry. 

_Zotepine. Each pill contains: Opium, Chloroform, Morphia, Sulph… skillfully combined with a number of other ingredients. From the doctors office of Warren and Warren, enquiries and appointments to 1606 Fulham Road, London, SW10 9NH_

Thomas looked away. Clarkson dropped his hand. 

“Read the label, and keep it on the bottle. That is just common sense- Honestly!” Dr. Clarkson stepped back from Thomas’ bedside, pocketing the label again lest he crumple it once more in his fist, “How old are you?” 

“I’m twenty-nine thank you.” Thomas said bitterly, though his eyes were now focused on the alarm clock he clutched in his hands. Mrs. Hughes hand was still upon his own, still keeping him from throwing that alarm clock lest he tried, and suddenly Thomas found himself captivated by the differences in their hands… by the small details of Mrs. Hughes fingers and palm. 

“You’re nearly thirty years old- surely you could understand why this would be a bad idea!” Clarkson continued on, moving across the room as he spoke. 

Mrs. Hughes’ hand was old and wrinkled, her veins puffy and clearly visible upon the back of her hand. Her wrists were thin and bony, her fingers likewise the same. 

“Thomas, you were a medic in the war, you know what these things can do to people! You’ve seen what happens when people take random medications and pray for the best-!” 

Thomas’ hand was strong and thick, his fingers longer and better crafted for manual labor than her own. She was holding his wounded hand, the one constantly covered by his glove, and Thomas noted how even though he still clutched at the clock in a tight grip his ring and pinky finger hardly bent- stuck up against his will with just the barest curve to them. 

“Do you want to be-“ 

“When has what I wanted _ever_ mattered in _any_ situation?” Thomas demanded right back, for in his eyes the question was quite warranted. When had it ever mattered? It certainly hadn’t mattered when Philip had left him, when his platoon had been sent straight to the Somme, when Bates had been released from prison, when Jimmy had thrown his love back in his face, when Jimmy had walked away from him that fateful night and into Anstruther’s room- 

“I understand the outlook is bleak-“ Dr. Clarkson began, and Thomas detected a hint of pity in his voice that instantly sent his blood reeling. 

“Don’t you dare pity me!” Thomas looked up and found Dr. Clarkson beside Carson once more, the two men side by side and imposing in their authority. But Thomas had never been one to bow out, to crumple under pressure or sway to the touch. “You understand nothing, because the outlook is not bleak! The therapy worked, the pills worked- I know they worked because I found someone, and I’m happy, and I’m going to pursue an honest, proper future where I’m happy- and normal!” he added vindictively, praying no one would spot the one tiny lie in his claim. 

Clarkson just stared at him, more disturbed now than ever before. 

“My god.” Clarkson muttered. He ran a hand over his jaw, touching at the edges of his mustache momentarily. “What have they done to you?” 

Bates bowed his head, as if he were the one being shamed. 

“They’ve given me a future!” Thomas said, for some odd reason his heart rate slowing to a normal beat. “And I’m grateful!” 

“You think that now.” Dr. Clarkson agreed, pursing his lips momentarily before continuing, “But all they’ve done is set you up for a world of pain and misery which will come crashing down on your head when you realize that this cannot work. That you cannot love a woman, and that every day you say you can, you are lying to yourself-“ 

Thomas opened his mouth, ready to shoot another barb, but he was floored when his defense came in the form of Carson, who looked just as affronted at Clarkson as he had at Thomas when Thomas had cursed. 

“Now just a minute, Dr. Clarkson!” Carson urged, causing Clarkson to look around agog, “Surely Barrow should try to better himself. Surely such strides forward are commendable-“ 

“Commendable?” Mrs. Hughes demanded from where she sat with her arms around Thomas’ chest, downright affronted by the word. Bates looked back up, his expression slack with bitter irritation as his eyes slid lazily from Carson to Hughes as if to say _“Can you believe this lout?”_

_My god,_ Thomas thought momentarily as he beheld Carson, his new defender, warily. _The world is a strange place._

“What about this is commendable to you?” Clarkson demanded, sounding truly curious as he folded his arms once more over his chest. 

“Well, I would think it obviously preferable in the eyes of society and God that Barrow pursue an honest and virtuous relationship rather than…” Carson flustered with a vague hand, “Frolicking about after a…” But it seemed that Carson could not even bring himself to say the word ‘man’, and Thomas stomach squirmed uncomfortably. 

“A man?” Clarkson supplied, sounding just the tiniest bit irritated. Carson huffed, giving one short nod. Clarkson shook his head as he regarded Carson, but there was no amount of surprise in his voice, as he spoke. 

“And now it makes sense.” Bates spoke up from his normally silent corner, as if the secrets of the universe had suddenly been revealed to him though nothing had truly changed in the conversation. Mrs. Hughes was huffing in his ear, sounding quite like Thomas’ mother whenever she was at odds with his father over his latest antics. 

_“Nathaniel!”_ he could hear her snapping, _“How many times have I told you to put my sewing scissors back in my box, honestly I can never find them when I need them!”_

“Mr. Carson,” Clarkson tutted, “Your prejudices are hardly becoming of you-“ 

Carson gave a very loud huff, as if shocked that anyone could call him prejudiced. 

“It’s not prejudice-“ Carson at once tried to defend himself, “I am far from prejudiced.” 

Mrs. Hughes gave the tiniest titter of annoyance, only audible in her close proximity to Thomas. 

“It’s common sense, and I am proud of Mr. Barrow for finally coming to his senses-“ 

“Coming to his senses?” Dr. Clarkson demanded; Thomas’ heart rate picked up a little, “Dear god, man. What about this is sensible? Look at him, he’s on the brink of a mental breakdown because he _knows_ that this cannot work!” Clarkson cast Thomas a sideways look before continuing on. 

“That’s not true.” Thomas said at once. “I-“ 

“Daisy Mason spoke with us before we came up here.” Dr. Clarkson cut across, effectively silencing his lie even as he began to weave it. 

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat, the mere mention of Daisy’s name enough to send him jittering. 

“She was quite concerned about your state, as I’m sure you can imagine given that you are now _courting._ ” Dr. Clarkson said the word with such contempt that Thomas was amazed his tongue did not begin to immediately bleed, “And said that last night she’d had quite an interesting conversation with you. Tell me, what exactly did she say that so terrified you, you had to take half a bottle of opium pills to keep your courage about you?” 

_“I could help you.”_ Daisy had whispered, looking upon him with such hunger and longing as she saw his bare chest for the first time. 

“You must have realized when she made you take your shirt off that you were on a fool’s errand-“ 

Thomas could bear it no longer. He took up the clock once more from where it sat ticking merrily in his lap and launched it hard across the room before Mrs. Hughes could react quick enough to stop him. 

Carson jerked Clarkson out of the way, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him just in time as the clock flew right past where his face had been only seconds before to hit the opposite wall and shatter in a rain of glass, bolts, screws, and twisted metal. The resounding noise was so loud, so ugly, that Thomas almost wanted to clap his hands over his ears. 

“Thomas-!” Mrs. Hughes barked in his ear, her voice far too sharp and loud in her close proximity. Bates had paled, eyes wide as he kept a hand up like a shield- some base reaction after years of serving in war. Carson was wide eyed and gaping like a fish- Clarkson did not look surprised but he certainly didn’t look happy either. 

Thomas' heart pounded wildly in his chest, with only Hughes as a witness as she kept a hand over his chest. 

“Get out!” Thomas shouted at Clarkson, the edges of his initial rage dying but his humiliation soaring at the horrified looks everyone was giving him now, “Get out, now! Get out or I’ll- I’ll-!” But Thomas had no way of what he would do if Clarkson dared to stay a minute longer. He was liable to murder the man, and who would be able to stop him? 

_Carson,_ he suddenly thought, _Carson would stop me. And then fire me._

He was probably already facing his notice, as it was. 

Dr. Clarkson was straightening his coat, miffed but otherwise unharmed as he cast a look over his shoulder to observe the wreckage of the alarm clock on the floor. 

“I want him kept in bed.” Clarkson said to Carson, who could only nod in response, still staring wide eyed at Thomas. “I want him kept in bed and sleeping until Monday at least.” Four days rest, it seemed. “No more trips downstairs, and no more nonsense with Daisy-“ 

“Oh, naturally-“ Mrs. Hughes said scathingly. “We’ve already talked to her.” 

“What did you say?” Thomas demanded in a rush, but Mrs. Hughes only hushed him, her hand till firm over his heart as it continued to feel the pounding beat. Nobody answered Thomas, the conversation continuing clear on without him. 

“Put a lock on the door if you have to.” Clarkson said, though Thomas highly doubted he meant it (or at least prayed he didn’t), “He cannot be walking until those burns on his legs are at least somewhat healed. The more he strains them, the more he’s liable to get an infection.” 

“You can bloody well get of my room, all of you!” Thomas shouted in a rage, absolutely infuriated at being treated like a child, “If you’re going to act like I’m not here when you’re talking about me, then you can all bloody well get out of my room!”  
Dr. Clarkson gave him a scathing look. 

“Keep him in bed, and under control, and away from Daisy Mason.” Dr. Clarkson cut a hand through the air at the last bit, his tone taking a biting edge. 

“Go with god, good doctor.” Carson said, his voice grave. Clarkson did not need a second opinion (or in this case, a third) as he turned and made for the door. He was not the kind for biting remarks, for moments of dramatic pause or bitter reflection, and so as he reached the door he left without another word. 

And suddenly Thomas was stuck in his room, effectively jail bound with Hughes, Carson, and Bates for keepers. 

A spurt of dizziness burst through him, his breath coming out shorter as he withdrew a little upon his bed- desperate to put any distance between him and Carson that he could feasibly manage. He felt Mrs. Hughes’ hand tighten over his chest, as if she were trying to remind him that she was still there. She let go of his hand- there was no point in her gripping onto him when he had nothing left to throw- and instead placed her hand upon his back to feel the damp fabric there. He was soaked with a cold sweat, fear seeping into his bones as Carson grew more vindictively angry with every passing second that silence rang. 

_Oh Christ,_ Thomas thought in a haze of fear, _What did Daisy tell them?_

“I find it funny that not an hour after you and I speak on lies, you leave without a trace and throw the house into chaos.” Carson snapped, finally breaking the silence with his damning words, “Do you listen to nothing that I say? Or do I simply exist to amuse you at this point?” 

“Mr. Carson-“ Bates tried to come to Thomas’ defense, but Carson put a hand and effectively silenced the man. Bates pursed his lips, glowering at Carson in a change of character and pace. It seemed he, like Thomas, did not care to be told to ‘shut up’. 

“I never lied to you-“ Thomas tried feebly, “I- I never even spoke to you about it-“ 

“You as good as lied to me when you refrained from telling me where you were going.” Carson said. Thomas wilted a little upon the bed, and once again Hughes’ hand tightened upon his chest. 

“I thought- I thought you’d approve-“ Thomas’ voice grew slightly weaker as Carson narrowed his eyes in distaste. 

“Well…” Carson huffed, slightly flabbergasted, as Hughes made a row of scathing noises. Thomas looked to his left and found her face rather close to his own. She was glaring at Carson again, and suddenly Thomas realized why Hughes was sitting on his bed, was keeping her hand over his heart and refusing to leave with the room. 

Hughes didn’t want to leave him alone with Carson.  
Thomas’ jaw dropped a little in surprise, his heart suddenly burning with humility and gratefulness at her compassion and understanding. Perhaps Hughes knew that Thomas had left for London because of Carson. Perhaps Hughes knew that Thomas was exhausted and incapable of dealing with Carson on his own, and who better to deal with Mr. Carson than Mrs. Hughes- the only one in the house who could keep Carson in check. 

“I cannot pretend that I find the idea of you being strapped to a chair and shocked senseless soothing.” Carson said. Thomas’ heart skipped another beat, unnerved that Carson was coming close to empathizing with his situation when Carson so often considered him a by-product of malnourished nature. “I appreciate the end goal, but not the path you chose to go about it-“ 

“The end goal is just as much of a problem as the process to get there, Mr. Carson.” Hughes warned Carson in an icy tone from Thomas’ side. 

“Yes, yes-“ Carson said, abating Mrs. Hughes, but it seemed he hadn’t registered what she’d said in the first place as he carried on, “The next time that you must go to such a place, you must tell me first. Am I clear? No more hiding-“ 

“Next time?!” Hughes demanded, her voice quite hot. Carson jumped, eyes wide as he regarded Hughes with the mixed reaction of a child being caught in a naughty situation and a lover eager to avoid a brawl with the other, “There will be no next time! There will never be a next time-“ and at this Hughes turned to Thomas, her hands shifting upon his shirt until she gripped both his shoulders in her hands and gave him one terse shake, “You hear me? You are never going to that kind of place again. Yes?” 

When Thomas did not react, she gave him another firm shake. _“Yes?”_

Thomas nodded, but did not verbally respond. This seemed to satisfy Hughes, who rubbed his shoulders soothingly as she turned back to Carson. 

“As I say.” Carson grumbled, though his tone had certainly taken a softer edge, “No more hiding.” 

“No, Mr. Carson.” Thomas whispered, eyes now upon his coverlet once more. 

“And no more taking your shirt off in front of Daisy- are you mad?” Carson demanded, his tone rising back up as he put his hands upon his square hips. He looked rather like Mrs. Patmore, glaring down at Thomas in a bullish rage. “What on earth possessed you to do that?” 

“I- I don’t know-! I just- I didn’t- I didn’t know what else to do!” Thomas pleaded, for this was all very unfair. Thomas had been backed into a corner, had been completely at his wits end; if he’d denied Daisy, what would have happened then? What if she’d been put out or cried, thought herself to blame or left him entirely? Thomas was so adrift on the dangerous waters of courtship that every pathway seemed riddled with sharp rocks for his tiny boat to weather. Carson ought to have some damn compassion on him, he was practically doe-eyed for Mrs. Hughes- surely he could understand the difficulties of pleasing a girl. 

“That was just as much Daisy’s fault as it was his.” Hughes reminded Mr. Carson tersely, “And I can hardly see the point in chastising him when it’s you that keeps on urging him to be _normal!”_

Carson bit his tongue, the room falling into momentary silence. 

“You cannot have your cake and eat it too.” Hughes carried on, “Either you must admit that this is folly and chastise him for taking his shirt off, or you must be happy that he is courting Daisy and be glad that he did as she asked.” 

Carson gave Thomas a dry look, still silent as his hands slipped from his hips. For a minute Carson stood there, weighing his options, before folding his arms over his barrel chest to tut under his breath. 

“Yes, well, as I say-“ Carson muttered, “At least he never took his shirt off for Kent. That we know of. God only knows.” 

Utterly humiliated, Thomas buried his face in his hands. 

“That’s quite enough of that-“ Hughes retorted, and Carson scoffed loudly. 

“Forgive me if I am the line in the sand, Mrs. Hughes-“ 

“Oh I’ll forgive you-“ Mrs. Hughes carried on, “I always do, you know that, but I won’t be having you humiliate Thomas when he’s already having a hard enough time-“ 

“We’re having a hard enough time as well, Mrs. Hughes! What am I to tell his lordship when there is disruption among the upper ten- among the upper four indeed!” Carson sounded deeply ashamed at the prospect. “He is my assistant and my replacement if heaven should take me where I stand-“ 

“Oh I doubt even the Lord’s mightiest angels could uproot you from this house.” Hughes said with a biting hint of sarcasm. Bates’ snorted, barely holding back a laugh.

“I take that as a compliment.” Carson warned Mrs. Hughes, and when she replied her tone had softened discernibly. 

“Take it however you like.” She tutted, “But let Thomas be.” 

It seemed they’d struck up a compromise. Carson raised his hands in slightest acknowledgement of defeat, and as Thomas dropped his hands back to the coverlet Carson gave him an appraising look. 

“We won’t rake over all of it now.” Carson agreed. Thomas let out a tiny breath he had not been aware of holding, “But you will be following Dr. Clarkson’s orders, and there will be no more instances of Daisy visiting you in the men’s quarters.” 

“God willing." Bates muttered under his breath. 

“No Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, his voice dull and flat. Damnit, it hadn’t been like he’d invited Daisy there in the first place! But perhaps Carson knew this, because his gaze had softened and he no longer sounded ready to strangle Thomas with his necktie. 

“Very good.” Mr. Carson straightened his waist coat, but as he turned to go he noticed the shattered cloak and cast Thomas a scathing eye over his broad shoulder. “And clean up this room the minute you get a chance. It’s a sty.” 

He closed Thomas’ door sharply behind his retreating back, his feet heavy upon the floorboards as he left the men’s quarters in the clear direction for the stair well. 

Thomas swallowed, his throat suddenly becoming incredibly hot and tight. Bates looked at the wrecked pile of clock parts, then back at Thomas. He was smiling. 

“Good arm.” Was all he said, heading for the door as well, “Though I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’re a damn hand at cricket.” 

He gave Thomas and Mrs. Hughes a tight smile and left without another word, closing the door softly behind him. 

And suddenly they were alone. 

For a minute Thomas simply sat there, quivering in her arms as she continue to rub his shoulders soothingly and console him in the silence. As the minutes continued to pass without Hughes making to leave or Thomas shifting her touch from their sweat-soaked embrace, he suddenly realized once again how utterly grateful he was to Mrs. Hughes. How very thankful he was that she’d sat by his side, and had thought of him first in the moment. Had taken care to note his rising temper, and had kept him from throwing the clock (the first time)… had put her hand over his heart. 

Had remembered he had a heart. 

“Please don’t put a lock on my door." Thomas whispered, sniffing as his throat closed up again with a surge of pleading emotion. 

“Oh Thomas…” Mrs. Hughes’ voice was so rich and warm, so laden with affection that it felt like a thick blanket being wrapped around his freezing shoulders. There was no blanket though, save for the one in his lap; only her arms were about him, hugging him tightly to her side as she gave him a watery smile, “As if you wouldn’t break out.” 

Thomas felt his face screwing up, but fought it all the way. Desperate to keep a hold on his emotions, desperate to keep from showing how utterly torn his was. 

“That was very unfair of him,” Mrs. Hughes whispered consolingly in his ear, “To call it a fool’s errand. There’s nothing foolish about wanting to be liked or happy.” 

“No.” Thomas drew a shuddering breath, swallowing several times as he willed his face back into a state of placid aloofness. The servant’s blank. “No, there’s not.” 

“And I know you never took your shirt off for Jimmy.” Mrs. Hughes added with clear compassion. “No one likes to make a fool of themselves in front of the person they love.” 

He could deny it, swear up and down he didn’t love Jimmy Kent, but instead Thomas sat limply in her grip and kept his eyes upon his coverlet until they no longer stung with unshed tears. He blinked back the wetness, swallowed around the stiffness in his throat, sniffed every time he thought he might whimper or bleat out a sob. Crying would do nothing for him now. Suicide would do nothing for him now. Weakness in any shape, form, or fashion would do _nothing_ for him now… when every last one of his options had run clean plum out and every path before him was riddled with flame. 

“… Thank you.” Was all Thomas could manage to say. “Thank you for saying that.” 

It was another half hour before she left and she kept her hands upon his shoulders the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not even to the end of the barrel rolls yet, either. You poor poor sots.


	14. The Final Stand of John W. Bates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John squared himself at the table, and as Thomas reached out to take up the alarm clock, John shot out a hand to catch him by the wrist. Thomas’ hand was icy cold in his grip, the bones brittle and thin to the touch. Thomas looked up, eyes widening in slight caution. It seemed that despite their newfound camaraderie, Thomas was still nervous about him. 
> 
> John smiled to ease the tension; this time Thomas did not smile back. 
> 
> “I want James back in the house.” John said, “I want him to return to work here, so that you two can be together.” 
> 
> Thomas blinked, scoffed, and dropped his hand to the table with a flopping ‘thunk’ so that John could let go of his wrist. 
> 
> “My goodness.” Thomas said, as if John were a wayward child who’d been caught in the attempts of a wild feat, “You’re delusional if you think either of those things are even a remote possibility.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes another barrel roll. We have one more barrel roll after this and then- what's that on the horizon? A sunrise? Always remember friends, the night looks darkest just before the dawn. This chapter is massive, about 60 pages, and hopefully will give you plenty to chew on while I pull together the next chapter. After that, we hit the halfway point of this story... and the beginning of the real emotional roller coaster. 
> 
> on a separate note, this chapter will include a famous jazz song. The version I use as inspiration is by Eydie Gorme, and can be found online here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTkv1sWugO0
> 
> As Thomas listens, so can you. :D 
> 
> I apologize for any errors in this chapter. This was a massive update. I was not able to catch them all, obviously. 
> 
> Thank you so much, to all my fabulous reviewers and to everyone who is enjoying this story. Here we go!!!

Despite Thomas’ demands to the contrary, no one believed his attempt at self-medication wasn’t an attempted suicide. He found himself pegged in a tight and ugly corner full of expectant stares and unwanted well-wishers, all of whom had decided that they knew better for Thomas than he did himself. This spun him into a dimension of pissed-off that Thomas had not known before to exist, mainly because there was no peace and no sense. Despite having contemplated the murder of several individuals, Thomas had never honestly thought about the entire train of events that would take him through manslaughter until the following week where he was hounded left and right by every member of the upper ten that could spare a moment to watch him. The only problem was that his so-called ‘overdose’ had left him utterly drained and exhausted, to the point where Thomas could do little but sit and slump at a table. And even that took a good deal amount of effort. There was always someone at his elbow. Always someone wanting to inquire on his health or offer him a cup of tea or just sit there and smile and be _right in his fucking way._

Thomas had labeled his murder plan into five easy steps. 

_Step One: Isolate his victim through a well placed series of lies that would cause them to travel from the house to the shed in the woods where Thomas had once hidden Isis. Claim he wanted a walk, or a talk, anything to get his victim away from other eyes and ears._

Daisy was no longer allowed to speak to Thomas in private, could not even so much as enter the same room as Thomas without another individual being present, and it had begun to embarrass her so much that every time she looked at Thomas (or heard his name or set tea before him) she looked close to crying. This infuriated Thomas, because Daisy had done nothing wrong, and was being punished for all the wrong reasons. Daisy was in love with him, he knew enough about her behavior to see that clearly now. She’d come to Thomas’ room for the very same reason that Thomas had gone to Jimmy’s, and was now being hounded in the exact same way and it made Thomas’ blood boil. Worst of all, he’d not been able to tell her as much, not been able to take her aside and assuage her fears, assure her that she’d done absolutely nothing wrong and that she shouldn’t be punished simply for loving someone, because no one would give him the damn chance. Every time he tried to get her on her own, Bates or Baxter would show up and drag him into the opposite corner of the house on some menial errand. Every time Daisy opened her mouth, with sparkling eyes upcast into Thomas’ face, Patmore or Hughes would jerk her by the elbow and drag her away, giving her a list of chores as long as he arm so that by the time she was done she was too tired to remember that she’d wanted to talk to Thomas. 

And it irked him. 

_Step Two: Distract his victim by insisting that something was over their shoulder of high importance. Perhaps an old acquaintance or a dangerous animal. In one rapid motion, snap their neck while they’re not looking. Enjoy every single minute of it from the sound of the bone snapping to the heavy thump that followed when they hit the dirt._

One week after his disastrous side-adventure to London, Thomas was sitting at the servant’s table working on the inventory while the rest of the house bustled around him and (mercifully) left him in peace. The Bates and Phyllis were off puttering about the house, no doubt fetching buttons or shining shoes while their masters drank champagne and floated on air. Carson was decanting wine in his study while Mrs. Hughes instructed the maids on how to properly fold a table cloth (because apparently they’d only been doing the job half-right). Mrs. Patmore was in the kitchen as per usual, holding court with Daisy while she prepared savories for dinner. 

As for Moseley, there was no telling where that prat had gone off to. Frankly Thomas didn’t give a shit. 

A sudden presence on the fringe of his vision caused Thomas to raise his eyes warily, fully expecting to find Mrs. Hughes standing there with a clipboard and a friendly smile (more advise, more talks, more of Thomas plotting murder), but was pleasantly surprised to find Daisy, holding a pot of tea wrapped in a thick napkin and looking very timid. Watery eyed and exhausted, Daisy wove a little upon her feet, clutching the heavy teapot a little tighter to her chest as she sniffed heavily and blinked bashfully at Thomas. 

Thomas sat up straighter at the table, setting down his woebegone pen and giving Daisy a hesitant smile. 

“Daisy.” Thomas greeted her. 

“Thomas.” She whispered his name, as if afraid to speak louder lest someone hear and take her away. After a week of chastisement and heated arguments, Thomas could more than sympathize. 

He gestured to the seat next to him. 

“Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” He asked, hope sparking inside him. Now might be the perfect opportunity to explain to her that he did not blame her nor hold it against her. That he completely understood her position. 

“I would.” She practically collapsed into her seat, setting down the teapot upon the heavily washed table and slumping over, rubbing her reddened eyes with a blistered hand as Thomas slid his clipboard away so as to devote his attention entirely to her. 

Daisy looked absolutely horrible, like someone had over-starched her in the wash and then wrung her out too tightly when they hung her out on a laundry line. Her complexion was pale (a high statement for an english blooded woman who kept most of her time indoors), and her expression was gaunt. She would not meet Thomas’ eyes, her brow furrowed from lack of sleep as she instead ran hesitant fingers around the base of her brown teapot. A thin trill of steam rose from its spout, warming the air between them as Daisy sniffed again and again. 

It occurred to Thomas that amid everyone’s determination to talk to him, no one had thought to talk to Daisy. To console her; to be kind. 

It made him want to enact his five murder steps. 

“Daisy,” Thomas said softly, eager not to be overheard lest he be stopped, “I want to tell you, yo’ve done nothing wrong-“ 

Daisy did not look up at him, still too embarrassed. Her lips quivered, plump and reddened (she’d clearly been biting them) as heavy emotion flashed across her face. She didn’t believe him; Thomas could tell. He reached out at once, taking her hand into his own from where she idly touched the teapot. Daisy froze, her arm stiffening beneath his grip as her brown eyes grew wide with amazement. She looked up at him, and for the first time in a week Thomas saw hope in her eyes. It was small, it was dim, but it was hope. 

“I’ve been trying to say that for days but no one will let me get a word in edge wise-“ Thomas urged, and thought it felt very unnatural upon his face he even offered her a gentle smile. The corners of Daisy’s mouth twitched up on reflex. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not angry at you or anything, I swear-!” 

“Daisy!” 

Daisy jumped in her seat, clutching at her heart with her free hand while her pulse raced beneath Thomas’ fingertips. Thomas clenched her hand tight, her fingers popping beneath his iron grip as anger flashed within him. There in the doorway to the kitchen was Mrs. Patmore, self-righteous in her indignation with hammish fists upon her hips as she glared at Daisy. 

“Daisy, get away from there and come help me in the kitchen-!” Patmore demanded. Daisy’s lips quivered, her eyes growing misty again. Her pulse was still racing beneath Thomas’ fingers. 

_Step Three: Head out of town. Preferably to Paris. On the way study French._

“Please, Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy croaked, looked a hair away from cracking like well worn pottery, “I’m so tried. I’ve been running around all day-“ 

“This isn’t a hotel, Daisy, it’s a working house and you’re more than accustomed to the load.” Mrs. Patmore reminded her in a rather unkind voice, “Now get away from there and come help me in the kitchen, what are you, daft?” 

_Step Four: Upon arriving in France, assume a false name. Something common and easy to get lost with like Louis._

As if bidden by Mrs. Patmore’s unforgiving attitude, the hallway to the stairs was suddenly crowded by the Bates and Phyllis, all of whom were holding different garments for the upstairs over their arms in need of mending. Phyllis was the first around the corner, a damaged hat in hand, and the first to open her mouth as she eyeballed Daisy and Thomas sitting at the table. 

“Thomas-!” Phyllis called out to him. “Won’t you-“ 

But whatever Phyllis was about to demand of him was lost as Daisy bowed her head and promptly burst into tears. 

_Step Five: Get a job making patisseries at some local out of the way hiding hole. Work way up in management while likewise eating everything in sight._

A horrible heavy silence suddenly fell as both Phyllis and Mrs. Patmore blanched at Daisy’s unexpected tears. Daisy, utterly humiliated for her crying, clapped both hands over her face to hide her inflamed eyes and soaked cheeks so that suddenly her whimpers were muffled. 

And suddenly Thomas could remember being found crying outside by Mrs. Hughes on a starless night.   
And promptly lost his temper. 

“Would you lay off, all of you?!” Thomas roared, leaping to his feet and knocking his chair back so that it nearly teetered over as he glared venomously at all gathered in doorways. “No one ever asked for your bloody advise; I certainly don’t want it! You want someone to pick on, you lay off Daisy and pick on me! At least I can handle it!” 

And with that, Thomas pulled Daisy up from her chair to steer her away from the servant’s hall. 

_Step Six (post opp): Jam fruit preserves and make friends with all the locals. Never tell another soul about England, service, or Jimmy Kent and his fucking hair. Die fat and well liked. But alone._

The only refuge to be found in moments where the servant’s hall was a snake pit was the outside, beyond Carson’s grip and Mrs. Hughe’s failing range of eyesight. Thomas knew just the place, taking Daisy past the gate for the back road and pulling her into the motor shed where Mr. Pelham kept his lordships motorcar when it wasn’t being used. Daisy collapsed onto it, pressing her sweaty face into the cherry red wood of the side paneling as she wept openly into the thick window glass. Thomas kept his hands upon her shoulders, wishing he could sooth her even as she hiccuped and shuddered beneath the weight of her sorrow. People like Daisy weren’t meant for constant scorn or criticism. Where people like Thomas just turned hard, people like Daisy collapsed and floundered. Some were built for hate, some were not. Where Thomas was a german tank, Daisy was a french flower- easily crushed if rolled over. 

Her name fit her well. 

“Daisy, don’t cry.” Thomas begged, but it was no use. The wall had dropped and now Daisy was almost wailing for her grief. 

“Y-you yelled at e-everyone!” Daisy took in one deep shuddering breath after another, “Y-you’re going to g-get in trouble-!” 

“What, like that’s new?” Thomas sneered, his voice hard as he kept his hands firmly upon Daisy’s shoulders. He rubbed them for good measure, finding the muscles stiff with stress beneath his touch, “Oh come on, Daisy. I’ll happily get yelled at if they lay off you-“ 

Daisy turned from the car, and Thomas got one good look at her blotchy, tear streaked face before she buried it in his chest instead, crying into his vest as her arms came about his waist. Thomas sulked, not keen to be used for a crying post (save for the rare, blue-vested individual), but stroked Daisy’s hair all the same. In the dull light of the motor shed it hardly looked gold. 

“Daisy, look at me.” Thomas urged, eager to get her off his chest if only to stop her crying; he took her by the cheeks and pulled her face up, forcing Daisy to look at him despite how she resisted, “Look at me- You’ve done nothing wrong. I promise you, you’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“I sh-shouldn’t have gone into your r-r-room!” Daisy bawled, the shame contagious in her voice. 

“Fair enough!” Thomas agreed, for he was almost certain he’d been traumatized for life by that whole affair, “But you couldn’t help it either-“ Thomas added, remembering how he himself had been compelled beyond reason to visit Jimmy’s room late one fateful night. “Daisy, I understand!” he urged, “I’ve done foolish things for love- I understand, I promise!” 

Daisy wiped her tears, and Thomas dropped his hands from her cheeks to situate them upon her shoulders as her cries slowly began to reduce to miserable hiccups. 

At least she was no longer sobbing onto his chest: progress. 

“You- you were scared.” She looked utterly miserable as she said it, eyes downcast to avoid looking him in the face. “You were scared of me.” 

“Yes, I won’t deny that.” Thomas said; at this point it was unavoidable, “But that wasn’t your fault.” 

Daisy wasn’t listening. She still wouldn’t look at him. She was ashamed of herself, ashamed of her actions, ashamed of her love, and Thomas knew exactly how that felt. Knew how it felt to be utterly humiliated in the eyes of others all in the name of love. Hell at least Thomas pretended to be courting Daisy- at least he consoled her and let her cry in his arms. Jimmy had been in such a foul and livid mood for months after “the incident” that Thomas had been forced to keep the servant’s blank up at all times lest Jimmy catch him in a fit of misery and fly into a rage. Even so, the force of Jimmy’s glare had been such an awful thing to bear that Thomas had had to hide in every corner of the house he could find for almost a year after that ugly night- and once sequestered into a tiny dark corner he’d wept himself silly. Alone. 

Admittedly Patmore had always been quick to offer him tea or pudding when his corner had been her pantry; had forced him to eat a tangerine or smoke despite him crying so pitifully that he couldn’t even inhale a cigarette properly.

“Daisy-“ Thomas ground his teeth hard for the sheer irritation he felt at this entire conversation. Why did it even need to be had? Why couldn’t everyone just understand? “If I wasn’t such a bastard, if I weren’t so sick in the head, I wouldn’t have been scared- if I were a normal man I’d have taken you in my arms in a heartbeat-!” 

“What do you mean, ‘normal man’?” Daisy asked utterly confused. She looked up, her inflamed brown eyes searching his face. 

Thomas stuttered, suddenly running out of valuable things to say as Daisy waited for an answer that wasn’t coming. 

There was no point in salvaging conversation. Thomas just pulled her back to his chest again, allowing her to cry there in pitifully soft huffs as he kept her from seeing his face- from catching site of his bitter and ugly expression at not being able to tell anyone the truth. 

Damn it all to hell, what he wouldn’t give for another life altogether at this point. 

 

Life got significantly more normal at that point, or at least as normal as life could ever be for Thomas when he was courting a woman and indebted to John Bates at the same time. His chastising had successfully scared off both well wishers and aggravators, to where Daisy was receiving quite a bit of sympathy and kind looks while Thomas himself was avoided and treated with care as if he might explode like a badly made bomb. This was as it should be, and Thomas couldn’t be happier for it as he read the paper late Monday night while Daisy sat beside him working on a set of math problems. Sipping on a freshly poured cup of tea, Thomas avidly searched the newspaper for mentions of new books about to be released (he’d quickly devoured Dorothy Parker and was eager for something new). Mrs. Hughes sat on his other side, far from offering him advice but still un eager to let Thomas and Daisy be alone. To hide her double motive, she worked on feathering christmas bows for gifts she’d yet to wrap and thumbed through a women’s magazine at the same time (“Five new ribbon wrappings for your perfect present!”) 

Carson entered the hall, a slim but wide package underneath one arm and a letter in the other opposite hand; Thomas’ eyes flickered up, setting his pen down to offer Carson the finished inventory which Carson took to likewise hand over both package and letter. Thomas accepted them, confused as to who would be sending him mail (unless he was about to receive a death threat from the now closed offices of Dr.’s Warren and Warren). 

“Evening post.” Was all the explanation Thomas got from Carson as he left the servant’s hall with Thomas’ inventory under his arm. Daisy looked up from her math book, just as curious as he. 

The package was wrapped in brown paper with thick chorded ribbon to keep it closed, and appeared to be just the shape and size of a gramophone record. The letter was hardly a novel, but post marked from London and stuffed in an envelope made of the same brown paper as the package. 

“What’s that?” Daisy asked as Thomas set the package down upon the table to first start on the letter. 

“God knows.” Thomas mumbled, not really caring. The letter didn’t even have a return address- it was probably a circular. 

Thomas tore the seal open with the edge of his thumb nail, the paper heating beneath his hands as he reached inside to pluck the actual letter out. It was made of cheap yellowing paper, folded three ways to obscure thin slanted print. Once laid flat, Thomas noted a return address for a letter header and promptly stopped breathing at the name. 

_James Edward Kent_  
_23 Greengarden House, St. Christopher’s Place_   
_London_  
_A5204_

Thomas let out a string of ridiculous noises like a small cat being stamped on, at once clapping the letter to his chest so that neither Daisy nor Mrs. Hughes could read it if they looked over his shoulder. 

His heart pounded in his ears, his blood rushed in his veins. A feeling of elation poured through him, marred only by the terror of finally receiving a letter and the bitter loneliness at its writer being so far away. Thomas had waited for, had longed for, had prayed for a letter and finally- finally- it had come. 

Thomas didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His facial expression was probably disturbing. 

Both Daisy and Mrs. Hughes were staring at him like he’d lost his mind. 

“Is something wrong, Mr. Barrow?” Mrs. Hughes asked, a lacing of concern touching her otherwise mild voice. 

“N-no.” Thomas stuttered, rising to his feet as quickly as he could and taking the package back from Daisy who was still watching him with raised eyebrows. “Excuse me.” 

He would have climbed over the table to get out of the room faster, hurrying for the only safe place he knew in that moment- the boot room. He found it mercifully empty and shut the door at once, leaning against it so that no one could enter in after him. His heart was still pounding in his chest, his feet felt slippery in his shoes from all the sweat. Giddy, on the verge of vomiting for all the tension he was undergoing, Thomas set the package aside atop a counter covered in rags and shoe polish to unfold Jimmy’s letter once more to read it in the dim amber light. 

_“Thomas,_

_I’ve thought of you nonstop since you left for Yorkshire with Baxter and Bates. I don’t know what I pitied you more for, those atrocious burns or the fact that you had to listen to Bates nag for three hours on a train… honestly I’d prefer to have my fingernails pulled out.”_

Thomas had to stop in that moment, a well of hysterical emotion bubbling from within him; he made an ugly, pathetic noise of plaintive distress, barely keeping his tears in as he took a trembling breath to pour back over the letter once more. 

_“How are you feeling? Are your burns any better? I hope you’ve been sleeping and eating well; my mum always told me that was the best remedy for any sickness. She used to make this soup with chicken in it… it was so good I’d sometimes look forward to getting ill just so she’d make it. I guess I might as well ask how Daisy is, but frankly it still confuses me that you’re stepping out with her. She knows nothing about you; she’s not your type. I don’t know what your type is, but it’s not her. ~~I don’t even know if your lot have types.~~ ”_

That earned an actual laugh from Thomas, who was still able to read Jimmy’s sentence despite him having avidly scratched it out. 

“Oh Jimmy…” Thomas mumbled, a smile upon his wetted face as he continued to read. 

_“I’m playing in Jack Ross’ band… but you already knew that. Whenever I play I think of the piano at Downton and how you used to sit next to me on the bench smoking and cussing. You really were a lousy bandmate, but I won’t hold that against you. As a matter of fact, I miss your nattering. My piano bench is cold without you beside me. I often wish you were here, if only to make the days less lonely. The nights are lonely too.”_

Thomas hitched a breath, his lip and chin quivering despite how he tried to hold it back. 

Jimmy ought to write a book: _“How to Make Thomas Barrow Cry in Five Sentences or Less.”_

_“We cut live records all the time, we just got finished cutting on a few nights ago. I’ve sent it with me letter so you can actually have some good music to listen to. If Moseley’s as good at the piano as he is at cricket, you’re in serious trouble. Mr. Crawley’s gramophone is still in the attic so don’t pretend like you can’t listen to it. It’s Jack singing… but I’m on the piano. I back him up in the chorus, so you better listen the most during those parts.”_

Thomas looked over at the package upon the table, letter unfinished but his curiosity desperate to be sated. Taking it up at once, Thomas pulled off the twine and tore open the top to fish around for the record inside. It was a sleek, fine thing- like a freshly cut diamond or a fancy new motorcar on parade, and Thomas’ heart skipped a dizzying beat at the realization that on this very record Jimmy Kent’s voice was captured… eternally. 

Unable to stop himself, Thomas pressed the record to his chest, ready to swoon even as he closed his eyes and sank against the wall of the boot room. Still partly blocking the door, Thomas took a moment to smell the vinyl… the shellac. The beautiful black disk. 

Here was heaven on a plate, all for him to savor and devour. 

Thomas hung his head, wrist going limp to look at the very last paragraph of Jimmy’s letter. 

_Soak it up,_ his brain urged him. _Make his words last._

_“I saw you in my dreams last night, we were in that hallway. Whenever I dream of you… we’re in that hallway, and I’m about to walk into Anstruther’s room. But this time I don’t. This time I do what I should have done in the first place. I stay in the hallway, I stay with you. I tell you ten thousand things. And I’d tell you a thousand more things, but I’m about to fall asleep as it is… so I have to stop this letter so that I can return to you again in my dreams. You’re waiting for me in that hallway; I won’t keep you in anticipation for long. — ~~Yours sincerely, Yours, Your friend~~ \- Jimmy Kent.”_

Thomas’ lip trembled again. He reached out and touched the penmanship. The ‘J’, with its massive curse. 

Ten thousand things- if only… if only indeed. Thomas would sit with Jimmy for the rest of his life and listen. Listen to all the things he’d likely say, and all the things that would be surprising to hear. Even if they only ever talked on mundane things- the taste of Mrs. Patmore’s pudding or the turn of the weather with the change of season… the way Mr. Carson’s eyebrows just seemed to get bigger over time, and the possibility of change in government releasing them from the shackles of servitude. 

_“This time I do what I should have done in the first place”_   
If only… if only… 

But Thomas could sit for a hundred years and lament Jimmy Kent’s lack of an ability to say ‘no’; at this point he had two options. He could either sit and hide in the boot room or he could get his arse up to the attic, drag out that gramophone and play the fucking record. 

Given that it carried Jimmy’s voice, Thomas knew exactly what he ought to do. 

He left the boot room in a hurry, almost knocking into Moseley upon the stairwell as he ran past with the record and letter clutched tight to his chest. Despite the lack of advisable sense in it, Thomas took the shortcut of the main staircase (which was mercifully deserted of the family) to run for the attic instead of taking the longer servant’s route. The attic of Downton was a massive, dusty place. The forgotten top floor filled with covered furniture, despised gifts from distant relatives, summer wardrobes (given the season), and Matthew Crawley’s gramophone… which was tucked into the very back corner so as to avoid traumatizing Lady Mary lest she ever come calling to the attic. 

What the hell Lady Mary would be doing in the attic, god only knows… but Carson had been insistent and Alfred had been obliging. Thomas dug his way through a canvas maze, a ridiculous grin full of determination breaking upon his face as he spotted the gramophone in its dusty corner. Dropping to his knees, Thomas opened the lid of the gramophone to place the record on the turntable. He wound up the mainspring till it felt taut to the touch, remembering his grandfather’s ancient advice on clocks. 

_“Never push the clock past the point where it’s comfortable.”_

Thomas released the brake lever; the turntable began to spin. He took the soundbox and gently lowered it onto the smooth outer rim of the record, his heart skipping a beat or two at the hiccup of white noise. 

He gave the soundbox the slightest push, barely the twitch of a finger, and slowly closed the lid of the gramophone. 

With the volume down as low as possible to keep from attracting any unwanted attention, Thomas let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he suddenly heard the strike up of a soft beautiful piano. 

“Jimmy…” Thomas said aloud, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it. He sunk against a dusty and dented trunk, Jimmy’s letter tight to his chest as he listened intently. Jack Ross began to sing: 

_“Don’t you remember how you used to say_  
_You’d always love me in the same old way_  
_But now it’s very strange, that you should ever change._

_Sometimes I think someone has won your heart_  
_Tempted you away_  
_But let me warn you though we’re miles apart_  
_You’ll regret someday… my darling…”_

Thomas let out a shuddering breath, the sound mixed the sudden stirring of an orchestra. Despite the command of Jack Ross’ phenomenal voice… Thomas was listening to the piano, so smooth so lovely. like whiskey on the rocks… And waiting. Waiting for the crescendo he knew was coming… waiting for Jimmy’s voice. Waiting like a wife might when her husband was away at war. 

_“After you’ve gone and left me crying’_   
_After you’ve gone, there’s no denying’_   
_You’ll feel blue, you’ll feel sad—_  
_You’ll miss the bestest pall you’ve ever had._

_There’ll come a time, now don’t forget it_  
_There’ll come a time, when you’ll regret it._   
_Someday when you grow lonely_  
_Your heart with break like mine, and you’ll want me only_  
_After you’ve gone, After you’ve gone away-!”_

Jack sang a chorus, the band struck a harder beat, growing louder with emotion and talent, and quite suddenly: 

_“Oh you’re gonna miss me baby!”_   
It was loud, proud, and beautiful. Thomas was wooed; his eyes fell shut as he listened to it with every fiber of his being. 

_“And I don’t mean maybe!”_

Thomas’ mouth drifted open, his head heavy upon his neck as he breaths grew shorter with each passing. There it was. Right there- right there. Jimmy. Jimmy’s voice. 

_“Some! Day! When you grow lonely! You’re heart will break— for me only!”_

Proof of Jimmy’s existence in the world. Proof of his loveliness, of his golden light. Captured forever, and all for Thomas to own. Could life get any sweeter… any uglier? 

_“After you’ve gone, after you’ve gone away!”_

And just like that, with a magnificent crescendo, the band was out and the record was over. 

White noise sputtered upon the air.   
Feeling numb and mute with broken off longing, Thomas opened the lid of the gramophone to gently lift the sound box away lest it harm his precious record. 

 

“Fuck…” Thomas whispered as he slumped back against the trunk.   
But he did not stay there long. He leapt back forward, rewound the mainspring, and listened to the record two more times just to hear Jimmy some more. By the time it had finished the third round, Thomas was decidedly heartbroken and ready to leap out of the first window he saw. 

Or get on a train to London and search St. Christopher’s Place up and down for Jimmy Kent. 

As soon as he got the chance, he was getting a map of London out to find that address.  
For the moment though, mapless and hopeless, Thomas was going for a fucking walk. 

With luck Anna Bates’ strawberries would have one last budding. 

~*~

Jimmy was a phenomenal singer, which did not surprise Thomas in the slightest given that Jimmy was phenomenal at everything he did ( _god damnit!_ ), but of all the jazz numbers to sing and send, why did it have to be that one? Had it been done on purpose? Some kind of… subtle sign as to what Jimmy was thinking about? But Thomas wasn’t the one who’d ‘gone away’, and Jimmy hadn’t been the one ‘left cryin’. His non existent love for Thomas certainly hadn’t driven him to ruin either. 

_No, that’s more or less my role._ Thomas thought bitterly as he stuffed another ripe strawberry into his mouth. 

Coatless and frozen on such a chilly night, Thomas reveled in the bitter cold as he squatted in the Bates’ garden, Jimmy’s letter tucked into his vest pocket and the fatal record sitting snug and tight under Thomas’ pillow back at the Abbey. He was going to be sleeping with it like some soppy milk maid- Thomas could already tell. 

Thomas leaned up against the rickety fence post, noting with mild amusement the rabbit trap that Bates had set up, and plucked the rest of the strawberries to roll them around in the palm of his gloved hand. The more he ate, the emptier he felt, till he was half a hand down and utterly spent in misery. Either Anna had put poison on her strawberries or Thomas was ready to puke out of wretched guilt, wishing that he’d never met Jimmy Kent in the first place and simply remained Edward Courtenay’s celibate lover for the rest of his isolated days. 

The back door of the Bates’ cottage opened wide, and suddenly Thomas was thrown into an unexpected light. Panic shot through him like a lightening bolt, and he scampered to get under the cover of darkness again lest he be caught. He dove for a back hedge and crouched low, the smell of earth deep in his nose and his final few strawberries clutched tight in his gloved hand. 

“Who’s there?!” Came Anna’s cry, having no doubt caught the tail end of him vanishing from sight. Thomas winced, overcome with horrible guilt as he suddenly thought of Greene and all that Anna had suffered at his hands- jumping at shadows and panicking in the dark. Determined not to give her more reason to fret despite the awkward questions it would raise, Thomas clambered out from behind the heed, hands raised up in mock surrender over his head even as he hung onto the rest of his strawberries. He stepped out into the light of the cottage stoop, squinting as his eyes adjusted from the dark. Anna was out of her normal clothes and in a night-frock bound by a dressing gown, her waist synched tight and her hair undone from its normal braided loop. Golden hair draped over her shoulder like a curtain, long and shimmering as she gaped at Thomas in her yard. 

“Don’t fret,” Thomas dropped his hands so that they clapped loosely at his sides, “It’s just me.” 

“Thomas!” Anna seemed to hardly believe it. She took a step off the stoop and then another- Thomas noted she was barefoot. “What on earth are you doing out in our yard?” 

Thomas shifted from one foot to the other, doubting that any lie would be stranger than the truth. 

“I was taking a walk.” he admitted, pursing his lips to keep Anna from seeing the strawberries he was chewing in his mouth. 

“So late?” Anna sounded a touch sympathetic. 

_Christ not this shit again,_ Thomas griped, knowing full well what was coming next. More well wishing, more ‘hope you get better soon’ bullshit and vague comments about why suicide wasn’t the answer. 

“It’s nothin’ like that-“ Thomas tried to say- but Anna cut him off before another word could pass his lips. 

“What’s that in your mouth?” Anna demanded, her tone suddenly taking a hardened edge. She took several steps across the clipped lawn, eyes growing wide with knowing as Thomas clapped a hand over his mouth. 

_Shit._

“You… cheeky little devil!” Anna cried out, and she sounded so truly angry that for a moment Thomas feared she might come chasing after him, barefoot and all. The jip was up, the truth was out, and Thomas clutched the rest of his stolen strawberries to his chest as Anna advanced on him in an ugly housewife rage. 

“I’m sorry!” Thomas screeched, leaping to his left even as Anna reached for his clenched hand with all the fury of a harpy, “I’m sorry I just- I just- I don’t know why I do it-!” 

Good lord he sounded like a kleptomaniac, now. 

“You’re the one whose been stealing my fruits?! You?!” Anna could hardly believe it, reaching up to clench at her hair like she momentarily meant to pull it out. The gaul, the audacity, the sheer nerve; every bit of it was stamped with the ‘Thomas Barrow’ trademark. 

_‘And after all they’ve done for you’_ an ugly voice in the back of Thomas’ mind said. 

“Anna?” 

Bates’ voice was loud and commanding across the yard, stopping Anna in her tracks even as she made to grab at Thomas a second time. She looked over her shoulder, finding Bates upon the stoop as he stepped out from the cottage. His vest and jacket were gone, shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders down- Thomas was amazed to find him walking without a cane. He looked like a completely different man with his hair out of its pomade hold, and his face slightly unshaven. 

“Is everything alright?” Bates asked, a touch of warning in his voice as he squinted through the dark to see who Anna was talking to. 

“Oh, everything’s fine!” Anna sneered, though her voice was in complete contrast to her words, “Except Thomas is our rabbit!” 

“Thomas?” Bates repeated the name, disbelieving. He left the stoop, coming onto the lawn, and now in the dark of night he saw Thomas hiding at the back of the garden quite clearly, hand still clutched to his chest and a very telling guilty look upon his face. 

“He’s the one whose been taking our strawberries and tomatoes!” Anna cried out, pointing to Thomas’ clenched hand. Thomas swallowed the rest of the strawberries in his mouth before she made him show the evidence. “I knew it wasn’t rabbits! I knew they’d have been caught in my traps!” 

Bates seemed stuck between the idea of laughing and scowling, eyes wide with impress as Thomas blinked and pursed his lips. He had a feeling they were stained with strawberries. 

“I’m-“ Thomas swallowed, still tasting the strawberries upon his tongue and lips, “I don’t know why I do it, really I don’t- I’ve been… doing it for a while now… years really.” 

Bates bowed his head, fists upon his hips as he thought it through and Anna fumed. 

“Was it you the other time? All those years ago?” 

“Yes” Thomas said, despite not having a year to peg it on or an instance to date; he knew instinctively that it had to have been him. 

“I see.” Bates nodded, not really too concerned. He leaned over, favoring his good leg to gently tug up a rabbit trap from the earth by the now-barren strawberry plant. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about rabbits anymore.” 

“No!” Anna cried out, flapping her hands as Bates tossed the rabbit trap away into the high brushed meadow just beyond his fence, “Just sneaky, thieving, sticky fingered little under-butlers!” 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Bates asked, though Anna looked ready to put lye in his cup as she threw her hands over her chest and sulked. 

“What is that in your hands?” Anna demanded. 

Thomas looked down to his gloved hand, cupped guiltily against his chest. 

“Um…” He mumbled, licking his lips a little. 

The silence ticked on. 

“Unbelievable.” Anna huffed; she turned and stormed right back into the house, slamming the kitchen door behind her. 

“Strawberries?” Bates asked. Thomas didn’t even bother with a lie, un-cupping his fist to show five rolling about in his hand. Without even asking, Bates reached over and took two to pop them into his mouth. 

To be fair, they were _his_ strawberries. 

“C’mon.” Bates jerked his head, turning to stroll with a slight limp back through the garden to the stoop of the cottage. He opened the door, hobbling up the steps as slow as he pleased, looking back over his shoulder to find Thomas still standing in the dark. “Are you coming?” 

“It’s late.” Thomas said, thinking instinctively of his room in the Abbey and the sanctuary it offered. 

“You’re already here.” Bates shrugged, “And I just made a pot.” 

And that was that. 

Thomas took one step, then another, Jimmy’s letter tucked into his pocket and three stolen strawberries hiding in the palm of his hand. He reached the stoop, suddenly nervous about the state of his shoes and if his hair was sticking up at weird angles. He reached up with his free hand to feel at his hair, noting that it was slightly damp with drizzle. 

Many years ago, on a starless night, Thomas had watched from the abandoned shed of a neighboring property as Bates fetched coal and observed his little love nest. Now, in what felt like a different century, Thomas stood on the stoop and wondered if he should dare step inside. This cottage was a sanctuary, a home built for lovers- for the lucky hearts of John and Anna Bates whom everyone adored and all took interest in. 

Thomas could never have such a cottage, and it filled him with such a sense of resentment that he could barely stand it. Why was it that the Bates should have everything? That the Bates should know love and adoration when their love was surely but a fraction of the feeling that Thomas felt for Jimmy at times. Even now, even with a healed wound in his hip and the burn of Daisy’s kisses upon his skin, Thomas still pined for Jimmy. Still longed for him in a way that was damning. Not that Thomas thought his nature to be vile or foul (despite Carson’s shrewd insistence), it was simply that his love was so strong, so pure, that it stopped him from breathing. He could not exist and love Jimmy at the same time. It simply wasn’t possible.

He stepped inside. 

The Bates’ cottage was a small, cozy thing. The kitchen was hardly an area to do Patmore proud, but it boasted a stove, a table with four chairs, and other little tidbits that claimed it for home. A spare broom sat propped in the corner, a doily and flower vase stood upon the center of the table. Thomas noted a stack of unopened mail there as well, sitting by a slanted chair as if Bates had been making to read it when Anna started screaming from the garden. The windows were covered in lace, as was the back of a large dumpy sofa in the living room and another coffee table at its feet. 

_Lace, lace, lace_ , Thomas thought irritably, _Do you have enough lace? I think you need some more lace, maybe you could buy a whole yard of it and just tack it to the front door._

There was a a weatherbeaten rug on the floor, a mantel with a tamborline clock and two arm chairs that sat facing one another (though they were slanted towards the sofa and coffee table). Stairs just out of view boasted an upstairs, and Thomas found himself marveling a tiny piano in the corner of the living room that looked like it couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. 

_What a sweet little thing_ , he thought idly, wondering where the Bates had found such a piano, and why they’d put it in their living room when neither of them played. 

Anna was busying herself about the kitchen, pouring three cups of tea even as she grumbled. The cups were mismatched and the saucers had chips in them, but the tea smelt heavenly after the cold and damp of the winter night and Thomas found his bones aching for the warmth radiating inside. 

“… S’lovely.” Thomas said as he looked about, teeth chattering momentarily as Thomas shook off the cold. 

“O’Brien said it would be lovelier once we spent real money on it.” Anna grumbled, turning around to offer Thomas a cup of tea. He took it, hands shaking a little. 

“She were bein’ nasty.” Thomas took a moment to let the warmth of the cup seep through the pale flesh of his free hand. “S’lovely.” 

“Where’s your coat?” Anna asked, as if suddenly realizing that Thomas did not have one despite it being the middle of winter. 

“Didn’t wear one.” Thomas admitted, still looking about the cottage in amazement. There was such a sense of love, of warmth that pervaded the very wood on which the cottage was built. Thomas almost felt like he was back in the womb, safe in his mothers arms and cocooned from the ugliness of the world. With the door closed, and the curtains drawn, who was to say that life was cruel? Reality could bend to the power of love in such places; Thomas was truly envious. 

“Thomas you’ll freeze without a coat-“ Anna broke off as Thomas stepped timidly into her living room. As he reached out to touch the sofa with a balled fist, the strawberries still cupped inside, Thomas briefly considered what his own sofa would be like if only he could have one. 

It would be… green, no- blue. Blue, he decided. A deep blue. Almost navy. But it wouldn’t have lace on the back of it. Maybe it would have a quilt instead. 

Thomas looked over his shoulder at Bates and Anna, and found them watching him from the doorway to the kitchen. 

“… Why do you have so much lace?” Thomas asked. 

“Got it when we wed.” Bates replied, pausing to sip his cooling tea. “Tradition.” 

“Oh.” Thomas looked back around, touching the lace laying upon the sofa. “You have far too much of it.” 

“See, he agrees.” Bates said to Anna, as if this were an old argument and one they picked up often. 

“Well bully for him.” Anna replied, leaving the kitchen to sit upon the sofa. She’d taken her tea with three sugars and a splash of milk. Thomas was so paranoid at taking tea in their house at all that he did not mention he often took his tea with a cube of sugar. Instead, he reached out over Anna’s shoulder, and opened his palm to show her the three strawberries he still clutched there. It was an ugly piece, and not one that adequately covered the sin of stealing her fruits, but as Anna narrowed her eyes she cupped her free had beneath Thomas’ own. He poured the rest of the strawberries into her hand, and she placed them on the rim of her saucer. 

She bit into one with mild contempt, still glaring shrewdly at him. 

“Well sit down why don’t you?” 

Bates took a seat in an armchair, clearly his favorite as it had a side table that he sat his teacup on. Relaxing with his feet up on an ottoman, Bates watched Thomas with interest, noting that the only two seats left were on the sofa with Anna or in the other arm chair. The arm chair felt masculine, incredibly domineering. If he sat there, he somehow equated himself to Bates in the house, and that didn’t sit right by Thomas. He didn’t want to be in an armchair by himself, not with Jimmy’s letter in his pocket and Daisy’s kisses on his skin. 

He sat down next to Anna and slowly sipped his tea. 

It was chamomile, good for the soul, and Thomas took comfort in it as it flooded his stomach and made him feel… whole. Human. Like he were decent enough to be invited into people’s houses for tea. 

When had he stopped believing himself? 

Thomas couldn’t remember. 

“Long night?” Bates spoke up. Thomas did not meet his eye, taking another sip of tea. 

“Yes.” Thomas said, for it was the absolute and utter truth. He wondered what Bates would say if he knew about the letter laying in Thomas’ pocket. Curious, Thomas set his teacup down on the coffee table (noting that Anna picked it up to put a doily beneath like she thought the wood in danger), and reached into his vest to pull out Jimmy’s letter. He handed it wordlessly to Bates, who took it to open it in the light of a nearby lamp. He leaned heavily upon the arm of his armchair, reading with narrowed eyes. Anna watched curiously, eyes flickering from Bates to Thomas. 

Bates finished and handed the letter to Anna, who set her own teacup down to read it while she ate the rest of the strawberries. The only noise was the sound of her flipping the page as Bates stared continuously at Thomas. Thomas did not look away. 

Anna finished and handed the letter back to him. Thomas took it, refolded it, and put it in his pocket. 

“Well that was confusing.” Anna finally said after a bizarre moment of silence. 

“He’s confusing.” Bates muttered in terse agreement, refolding his legs upon the ottoman and taking up his teacup to drain its contents. 

“He doesn’t mean to be.” Thomas said, sipping his own tea as slowly as he dared. He didn’t want to finish before anyone else did. 

But this just irked Bates, who gave Thomas a scathing look (one that Thomas hadn’t seen since before Lady Rose’ wedding) to say, “Why must you always defend him when his behavior is so despicable?” 

But Thomas just stared, saying nothing as he sipped his tea. Bates knew the answer to that question.   
Everyone knew the answer to that question. 

“I’m sorry.” Bates said, pinching the bridge of his nose and setting his teacup down. 

“God don’t say that.” Thomas couldn’t imagine a person less qualified to say such a thing to him. What in the hell did Bates have to be sorry for? When Bates had been the one to come to London, had been the one to help him from the hotel back to Downton Abbey and not mention it to others that he’d cried like a baby the whole way. 

“No, I should be.” Bates disagreed, settling himself into his armchair even as Thomas rested against the arm of the sofa. Anna watched them, toying with the green fuzzy leaves of her stemmed strawberries. “I understand you’re in a precarious position. But you’ve always defended him. Even when he was trying to get you sacked without a reference- imprisoned even… you always defended him. Always said it wasn’t his fault.” 

“It wasn’t.” Thomas assured him, and he believed it so whole heartedly that his tone left no room for argument. Jimmy had done nothing untoward. Jimmy had been innocent. 

“He’s a grown man.” Anna sided with Bates, though that was hardly a surprise. They were practically a dual image of the same person, “He can make his own decisions, surely.” 

Thomas shook his head; he imagined it must look odd, Thomas constantly backing Jimmy’s corner even when Jimmy seemed determined them both in an early grave. Anna was so unproblematic, a true sweetheart… until she tried to murder you for taking her fruits. Bates really didn’t know the struggle of loving someone who was… eccentric. 

But Jimmy’s not eccentric! A voice in Thomas’ head snapped angrily, He likes what he likes, and he knows his mind- what’s wrong about that? A man can be different without being a traitor! 

“It’s not that.” Thomas waved a hand to cast all doubt aside, “O’Brien wound him up. He wouldn’t be so unkind- not left to himself.” 

Left to himself.. Jimmy was completely different. 

_I know the real Jimmy_ , Thomas thought bitterly. _The real Jimmy is all my own._

“Why did O’Brien wind him up?” Bates asked, soundingly morbidly curious as he reached down to massage his bad knee. Thomas wondered if he did this often; sat in his favorite armchair, drank his tea, and massaged his leg, “Why did she do what she did? I always wanted to know, but I never thought I could ask.” 

O’Brien… Thomas hadn’t thought about her in a long time. 

Thomas could remember the first week he’d been at Downton. On the lam, unsure of who to trust or what to say. He’d kept to himself, hardly saying more than four words as he acquainted himself with the layout of Downton and discovered all the hiding places to have a good smoke in. O’Brien had been in them all, sneering at him to get out and leering at him all the while in between. 

Then one day she’d found him crying in the courtyard, hiding behind a stack of crates after receiving yet another rebuking letter from yet another hopeful romantic prospect. Ugly words on stale paper, stained with cigarettes and coffee rings. Still Thomas had clung to it, hating the world and every happy married couple in it. 

_“What are you weeping’ like a woman for?”_ O’Brien had demanded, sounding rather disgusted in him for weeping at all. 

_“I wish I were a woman.”_ Thomas had said, unsure of exactly why but so vindictive in his thought process- if only he were a woman; if only he were a man interested in women-… then things would be okay. 

O’Brien had stared at him for a good long moment before replying, _“I imagine you’d be an ugly one at that.”_

But Thomas had a twin sister, and he’d known O’Brien was wrong. He’d told her so.   
By the end of it they’d gone through a whole pack of cigarettes. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Thomas said, his voice trailing away.   
But it did matter. It mattered quite a lot. 

Thomas could remember thinking with such conviction that surely O’Brien wouldn’t lie to him. Surely O’Brien, knowing what she knew, wouldn’t dare to tell him that Jimmy loved him if Jimmy wasn’t interested. Surely. 

Surely, surely, surely. 

Thomas pursed his lips, bitter, and took a sip of tea. 

“I should think it does matter, since it started all this mess. And what did she even do?” Anna asked. 

Silence reigned again. 

They were looking at him, Bates and Anna both. Bates was waiting, as if he already knew Thomas was going to speak, but Anna had this nervous precarious edge about her. As if she was worried Thomas would take offense. As if she was worried Thomas wouldn’t answer. 

Thomas looked down at her teacup, at the chipped edges of her saucer.   
He’d stolen her strawberries, and she’d given him tea. 

Thomas set his teacup down, and began his story. 

“O’Brien wanted Alfred to climb the ladder, to be a valet.” Thomas said, keeping his tone as level to hide how very angry this whole… rehashing… made him. Because looking back, it was easy to see where he’d gone wrong. Easy. “Took me eight years to gain that mark, and I had to claw my way up every rig of the ladder and she just…” Thomas extended a hand only to have it fall into his lap with a soft ‘thud’. “Wanted it to happen overnight. I was afraid of Alfred coming after my job.” 

“You are the most paranoid man in existence.” Anna scoffed, but that was hardly a fair tag when Thomas’ paranoia had saved him from prison time and time again. The only time Thomas hadn’t been paranoid had been with Jimmy. 

And look how that had turned out. 

“I can’t afford not to be, Anna.” Thomas said, and Anna instantly closed her mouth to purse her plump lips, looking from Thomas to her teacup as if she expected the answer to fall somewhere in between them. After a moment she nodded, and Thomas continued on. 

“I was spiteful to Alfred, and it churned her. There’s no loyalty amongst thieves. I knew too many of her secrets. I couldn’t be controlled anymore. I didn’t want to harangue you-“ Thomas gestured to Bates, “I wasn’t interested in scheming after the war… I had to go.” Thomas said it so simply despite how queasy it made him feel. Like he was replaceable. Like he didn’t matter, “I knew too much, and I had to go.” 

“… So she used Jimmy against you.” Bates deciphered. Thomas nodded, though he did not meet Bates eye. 

On the mantel the Tamborline clock ticked away. Thomas found himself wanting to get up and look at it, to see who’d made it.

He doubted it was a _Barrow and Sons_. 

“She told me…” Thomas paused, eyes still fixed upon that clock. 

It wasn’t pretty enough to be a _Barrow and Sons_ , a dull little thing. 

“You’ll forgive me,” Thomas tilted his head to the side before continuing on, “I’m not used to having these conversations in someone’s living room.” 

But Bates just smiled at this and gave Thomas a tiny little nod. A go ahead for sin, “You can have them in ours.” 

Thomas swallowed.   
He set his teacup down. 

“She told me Jimmy was interested in me.” Thomas said, closing his eyes. If he tried hard enough he could still recall O’Brien’s face. How she’d gleamed and glinted, her curled hair flopping too and fro as she’d told him how Jimmy had purred like a cat beneath his touch. 

“For months, night and day.” Thomas paused, bowing his head with his eyes still shut. 

Months. Night and day. 

“Dropping hints and forswearing that… I was reading the signs right.” Thomas snickered at his own stupidity. “And I was so desperate, so hopeful, that I believed her. But I couldn’t act on it. I couldn’t- I was too afraid. For Jimmy, for myself. For what could happen to either of us, should we be caught. But it got to where my love for him was so strong, so powerful… that I just couldn’t contain it anymore. It were like walking around with a bomb in me chest.” Thomas paused, but neither Anna nor Bates made to fill the silence. 

They were waiting for him to finish his story. 

“But then you came back.” Thomas tilted his head towards Bates so that Bates knew he was talking to him, “And I knew my days were numbered. There was no use for me in the house anymore, everyone preferred you and why shouldn’t they when I had been such a shit for the first years of my service.” 

Thomas snorted softly.   
The world was truly a shitty place. 

“So Alfred took Ivy to the pictures, everything was fine. I was talking with Jimmy alone- and… he was complaining about Carson.” Thomas scoffed again, opening his eyes to look up to the ceiling again as he threw up a hand. That moment was so powerful, so etched in his memory, that Thomas could recall every word by heart. The damning moment; the detonator to the bomb. “Saying how Carson loved Alfred and no one loved him… and I said ‘Well I love you’. It just came out- just fell out of my damn mouth. I thought for sure he’d be furious. And he smiled. and he said ‘if you do you’re on your own’. And it was easy, and it was fine, and I… I thought surely…” 

Thomas trailed away. 

_I thought surely he loved me too._

“Then O’Brien walked into the room.” Thomas carried out, and he could not hide the emotional bitterness in his voice as he did, “And Jimmy left. And she kept saying ‘I know what’s going on, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes’ and I told her, that it was lies. That Jimmy wasn’t interested in me. And she leaned in and whispered. “Oh dear. Was it supposed to be a secret”… like as if everyone already knew. Like as if every barrier was already broken.” 

Thomas shook his head, still staring up at the ceiling. 

There was a crack in it; did Bates know? He ought to get it fixed before it got any worse. It was in the shape of a lemon.

“All my… work… all my secrets… all my hiding. For nothing. And Jimmy could see everything. And…” 

But Thomas drifted off a second time as he’d recalled what had happened next. Or rather, did not recall what had happened next. One moment he’d been in his room, pacing, infuriated and terrified, so full of love that he could burst. 

And then the next moment he’d been at Jimmy’s door.   
Because that was where he’d belonged. 

“I snapped.” Thomas whispered. He closed his eyes, unwilling to even look at the ceiling. He bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck tenderly at a sore spot. “I lost control. I don’t know why I did what I did but-“ His voice had grown incredibly thick, had lost all its tone… 

He knew exactly why he’d done what he’d done. But it hurt to admit… and he had a feeling Bates already knew. 

“I just… I started walking to his room and I couldn’t stop.” Thomas swallowed, that long trek down the hallway a memorized pattern after all his dreams. 

“And he was asleep, and I couldn’t stop.” 

_Jimmy, like an angel, splayed against his pillow, fast asleep. His chest rising in minuscule beats. Innocence carved into marble- truth on display for all the world to see._

“And I- I-“ 

_The taste of Jimmy’s lips beneath his own, plush and soft… sweet, and tasting lightly of tooth cleaning powder and peppermint._

_For one moment, Jimmy had kissed Thomas back. Had shifted beneath him on the bed and even leaned into his lips, turning his nose so that they were pressed side by side, their breathes intermingled and their sweat combined._

_For one moment, all the world had been right._

He could say no more on the subject. He had to move on before he started crying in front of Bates again. 

_I will never cry in front of you again._ Thomas thought vindictively. He took one steadying breath after another, swallowing several times until the knot in his throat cleared. When he opened his eyes again, they only stung slightly. 

He found both Bates and Anna watching him with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. An odd tenderness you would really only show to a friend in a moment when they needed it most. 

Thomas had never been looked at in such a way. 

“I’d thought that surely O’Brien wouldn’t lie. Not to me. Not when she knew what would happen to me.” Thomas’ tone turned bitter. He was jaded, “But that’s exactly why she lied. Because she wanted me to suffer in the worst way possible. Because she knew my weaknesses. And she wanted me gone.” 

Thomas looked away, back to his teacup. 

“Course when Jimmy started screaming blue murder, I thought it was because Alfred was in the room. So I said “Don’t be like that, no one will believe Alfred.”” 

“Everyone believed him.” Anna whispered. 

“I was desperate.” Thomas tried to give Anna a smile, a tiny timid thing, but it soon disappeared from his face at the look of her pity. 

Thomas immediately looked back up at the ceiling to the lemon shaped crack. He hated pity. 

Even when he deserved it. 

“I was so desperate to love him.” Thomas whispered. “I forgot no one could love me back.”   
“I think Daisy would disagree with you.” Anna said, not unkindly.

“Daisy loves a mask.” Thomas shook his head, sitting a little back into the couch so that he could rest agains the cushions. He suddenly felt incredibly tired. 

“What did it mean? Her ladyship’s soaps?” 

Thomas was thrown through a loop, his thoughts before so focused on Daisy that Bates’ question almost fell on deaf ears. But in a way he’d been expecting this question ever since the conversation had turned to O’Brien. He’d been amazed, deep down, that Bates had managed not to ask since the day Thomas had begrudgingly told him one tiny shred of O’Brien’s worst secret. It had only been a taste, merely a sliver, and still it had been so unnerving to O’Brien, so damning, that she’d immediately pulled off Jimmy… and had been shaking to boot. 

“Yes…” Thomas gave Bates the tiniest smile that was almost returned as Bates continued to massage at his knee, “That must have been very confusing.” 

Anna nodded, pulling the collar of her house coat a little closer to her throat as if she were cold. She’d curled her bare feet beneath her, tucking them into the corner of the couch as she shredded one tiny leaf of the strawberries apart at a time. 

“I’ll say.” She dropped yet another leaf into her empty teacup, “I couldn’t figure it out.” 

“Would you like to know?” Thomas asked her. 

“I would.”

He nodded. There had been a time, before Jimmy Kent and undying love, when Thomas had sworn to take this secret to the grave. Had sworn to die with it locked in his breast so that a hundred years later if his grave were dug up it would still be found boxed there beneath his bones, forever lost to time. 

_“Swear it to me!”_ O’Brien had trembled, her cheeks stained with tears and her fingers trembling, _“Swear it to me, Thomas-!”_

He had, at once. Had soothed and assuaged her. They were comrades after all, allies to the end. 

But then he thought of O’Brien sitting at the table while Carson tallied up the numbers for cricket, thought of her smirking and simpering while Thomas had sat in a corner by the hall boys, waiting for the end. Alive without really being alive; just a shell without soul. A night with stars. 

“Do you remember when her ladyship was pregnant and had a miscarriage because she slipped coming out of the bath?” Thomas asked, meeting no ones eye; he could not get the image of O’Brien out of his head. From smirking to trembling, the face danced back and forth. 

“Yes.” Anna said, cutting across the gloom of his thoughts, “that was dreadful.” 

“O’Brien was angry at her.” Thomas said, his tone surprisingly soft for all the menace it conveyed. “And wanted to hurt her… so she pushed the soap on the floor… to make it slick.” 

A terrible silence fell.

Thomas looked up. 

“Her ladyships soaps.” Thomas repeated the phrase. 

Anna was gaping, a hand at her open mouth as she stared up at him with horror. She’d gone pale, almost the color of her faded housecoat as she waited for him to crack into a smile and declare _“Ha! Only joking!”_ ; Bates looked deeply disturbed, his brow furrowed and his mouth ajar. Thomas could not help but smile. 

They were such good people, so wholesome and true; they knew nothing about the steeps of treachery and how souls could fall into blackness. 

“She told me after everything had occurred. She realized the minute that she’d done it that it was wrong. And she tried to stop her ladyship from getting out of the tub- but it was too late.” Thomas shook his head, “And everyone was so horrified and heartbroken and she just felt so guilty. She confessed to me like I was some kind of priest, and I… said to everyone… “they’re the size of hamsters”.” Thomas paused to roll his eyes, now looking back on that moment and wishing he could have struck himself. Why in the hell had he said that? 

“I just wanted to be a good friend.” Thomas muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “I’d had a horrible year, truly horrible, and she’d been so kind to me. Understanding. I wanted her to know that I didn’t judge her… even though it was… despicable.” Thomas caught Bates’ eye, “When you’re like me you can’t afford to pick and choose friends. You take what you get…. I never thought she’d go that far, but she did and… all I could do was try to minimize the damage.” Thomas blinked, “That’s what it meant. Her ladyship’s soaps.” 

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” 

Anna blurted it out, the words flying from her mouth before she could stop them. She did not regret them, did not purse her lips or look away; it seemed she had to know. Had to be sure. And after such a story how could Thomas blame her. 

“Just… Just tell me now.” Anna lay her hand flat, a clear base line for Thomas to build on. Bates waited with raised eyebrows, expectant for Thomas’ answer. 

“Kissing Jimmy.” Thomas said; it was a reflex, a knowledge that required no research for proof. “I should never have done that. Ever.” 

Anna took a shaky breath, swallowing twice before offering in a timid voice, “You’ve not… tried to kill anyone?” 

“No.” Thomas said, flatly. 

“You blamed me for the wine you stole.” Bates grumbled from his arm chair, rolling his eyes as he put his large chin upon a rugged hand. 

“You saw me take it.” Thomas said, “You had to go-“ 

“And you stole the snuff box-“ 

“You got me there.” Thomas said, eyes widening a little at that fond memory. Christ Bates had scared the shit out of him, turning his game right around and stealing the snuff box back. Thomas had been ready to faint for fright. 

“Anything else?” Bates said with airy suggestion. 

“Oh, let’s see…” Thomas let out a long sigh, pursing his lips momentarily as he scoured his memory. 

He snorted at the memory of Isis. Poor, poor Isis. 

“I stole the dog.” Thomas said, and burst out laughing in spite of himself as both Anna and Bates looked around at him in morbid fascination. “Oh my god!” Thomas howled for a brief moment, pinching his brow even as his laugh trailed away, “I stole the dog.” 

“What?” Anna demanded in disbelief, uncrossing her legs to sit up a little straighter on the couch. 

“O’Brien told me to steal something of his Lordship’s… and ‘find’ it.” Thomas made quotations around the world, “And I didn’t want to steal anything of monetary value after that damn snuffbox, so I hid Isis.” 

Thomas snorted into his hands. 

“Oh my god!” He couldn’t believe the stupidity of it now, “I was crazy! I should have been taken away by the men in white coats for that!” 

“Thomas!” Anna cried out in absolute disdain, face contorted with anger; it only made Thomas snicker harder into his hand. “That’s worse than kissing Jimmy! How could you hide that poor, sweet dog?” 

Thomas coughed, his laughter dying in his throat as he compared the two situations: hiding a clueless dog in a shed or kissing an unsuspecting, innocent Jimmy-? 

There was no comparison to be had; none at all. 

“No.” Thomas said, and he was much more serious now. Anna noted his shift in tone, her angry face dropping back into one of concern as Thomas looked her dead in the eye, “No, it’s not.” He shook his head, “I should have been sacked for that. I wanted to be sacked for that. I wanted to be gone but… I was too valuable at cricket.” 

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it was difficult. 

“Now I’m in a stupid, superfluous situation, unwanted and unneeded in the house.” Thomas mumbled, “I’m just waitin’ to be sacked.” 

Bates spoke up from his armchair, sounding a tad determined to stop Thomas’ ugly shift in mood. 

“I don’t think that’s true.” Bates warned, “You’re just as needed as anyone else-“ 

“Nothing was worse than that kiss.” Thomas murmured. Bates stopped mid sentence, slightly irritable at Thomas having cut him off. “It was my… greatest mistake.” 

“But why?” Anna asked, soft spoken, “Why do you say that? It wasn’t done out of spite, it wasn’t meant to harm-“ 

“But it did harm.” Thomas corrected her, and he gave her a downcast look. She was growing sympathetic again, and it irked him. He couldn't’ stand pity in any form, “Don’t you see, that’s exactly why it was the worst. It wasn’t mean to harm, and still it harmed.” Thomas looked away, ashamed. He focused on a lace doily upon a far off table where a small bowl sat full of thread bobbins and spare sewing needles. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes at the lace, wishing he could ask the damn question as to ‘why’. 

“I should have had better control over myself.” Thomas murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “But I’d become so wrapped up in O’Brien’s lie, in the idea that-“ Thomas gestured aimlessly in the air with a vacant hand, “That it could work- that he could love me back- that I’d forgot the obvious…. that he didn’t.” 

“I think he does love you.” 

Thomas slowly looked back around, eyes narrowing in irritation at Bates as he sat with a small smile playing upon his thin lips. 

Thomas’ eye twitched. Anna gave a tiny snort of amusement that she quickly covered up with her hand when Thomas sent her a scathing look. 

“You’re lying.” Thomas said to Bates, who huffed with indignation at the mere suggestion, “If you were being honest, you’d admit that there was no way for him to love me. That if Jimmy had ever loved me that he would have made his intentions known instead of chasing after Ivy.” 

_Or sleeping with Anstruther_ , Thomas thought bitterly. 

“Maybe that’s why he chased after Ivy.” Bates offered with a wave of a hand. Thomas glowered, “He was constantly trying to prove his worth as a man.” At this Bates rolled his eyes, “It’s all a ploy to hide his real feelings. Whatever they are. You’re the best one to ask.” 

“He doesn’t like to look vulnerable.” Thomas explained; really though was this any mystery? Surely everyone could see it, “He’s afraid of being perceived as weak. Of being humiliated for it.” But Thomas could not help smiling even as he said it, for the warmth that began to bloom in his chest. The sheer affection, “That’s where I come in.” He said knowingly. 

“How do you mean?” Bates asked, eyes entranced upon Thomas as if Thomas (in that moment) were the center of the universe. 

“I’ll never let him be humiliated.” Thomas explained, “I’ll take the fall every time.” 

Bates just continued to look on, mystified. Thomas smiled absently into his drained tea cup, unable to keep from touching the corner edge of Jimmy’s letter, tucked safely back into his vest pocket. It was the most precious thing he owned now. As precious to him as the rare photos of his family tucked away in the top drawer of his bureau, if not more. 

As soon as Thomas got home, he was going to put this letter away with his lone manuscript of Morris, praying to preserve it for all of time. 

When he died, he’d demand they bury him with that letter. Let his dust become its dust.   
Till no one could tell the difference anymore. 

~*~

John Bates was a difficult man to sway. 

When he’d been five, he’d hated his next door neighbor- an older man with a mean dog that liked to bark at John every time he left the house to try and play with other children on his street. John had lived there for ten years more, and even at ten age of fifteen with the original dog dead and the older man hardly an enemy John had still disliked the man. 

John certainly hadn’t liked Thomas the day after watching Thomas fend off the police and save Anna from prison. He hadn’t really liked Thomas when he’d watched Thomas defend his honor at the Grantham Arms. He’d been slightly irked when he’d drug Thomas out of that therapy clinic in London, and when he’d watched Thomas have a break down in his bed he’d still had the tiniest bit of wariness in his heart towards the man. 

It was just habit; it was just John’s nature. 

But then John had watched Thomas walk through his cottage like it were a museum of wonders; tittering at the lace but saying nothing. He’d listened as Thomas had told him the entire sorry ugly tale of O’Brien’s treachery… and had finally understood as Thomas pronounced himself Jimmy’s undying defender and protector. 

Yes, it was safe to say that John Bates actually liked Thomas Barrow. The world was still turning, Downton was still standing, but everything in between had changed infinitely as far as John was concerned. 

John did not have many close friends, and when he did he often savored them. Robert was a close friend, and John had certainly done his share of defending of him in the Boer War. Anna was his soul mate, and not so much his friend as half his being. Without Anna he was as lame as his left leg. Besides the pair of them, John didn’t really have a confidant. Moseley was chummy but too… bubbly for John’s tastes. Carson was much more subdued, but John had to wonder if Carson ever relaxed and “let his eyebrows down” so to speak. Thomas fell right in the middle- cheekier than Carson but more sultry than Moseley, and it spoke to John who liked a good laugh but didn’t want to carry on about it for hours. In a way he and Thomas shared the same dry humor. The only difference between them was that John could love Anna without fear... and Thomas couldn’t love Jimmy without being lynched from the nearest tree. 

It made John fume, to see a friend so poorly denied. 

But it was more than Thomas’ humor or the fact that he could keep a solid head on his shoulders. In a way, it was the very fact that he and John had fought for so long that made John feel so close to him. Thomas had suffered greatly in his life, John knew that for a fact even without the verbal confirmation, and John understood how it felt to be afraid of your own family. His father had been sharp, hard and unforgiving when he’d cracked John around the face for being too slow or too stupid to keep up with the other boys at school. John had been better at wrestling and kissing pretty girls behind trees than doing math problems or writing in cursive- his marks had suffered poorly for it. He’d thought himself relatively lonely in his own house despite how his mother had tried to console him, but now that he considered it at least his beatings hadn’t taken a religious undertone. John’s father had just thought he was stupid… Thomas’ father must have considered him demonic. 

He tried to imagine a young Thomas, small and dirty with a tearstained face and huge blue eyes. Tried to imagine a Thomas with dirty trousers and wild black hair that went every which way. A Thomas that whimpered and whined for affection only to be tossed out on his ear and forced to contend with the world on his own. 

The day after Thomas’ impromptu cottage visit, John took it upon himself to find Mr. Carson mid-wine decanting and ask him a few questions. Nothing too serious, that would come later with Robert… par the moment John just wanted to test the waters. Wanted to know what could be done with the damage Jimmy Kent had left. A plan was forming in John’s mind, a wonderful awful delightful plan, and if it worked out … if panned in his favor… Thomas Barrow’s problems might all be alleviated. It would be the final stand of John Bates, his test against his new bond with Thomas. 

John held his cards close to his chest as he knocked on Mr. Carson’s door, taking heed of Mr. Carson’s bid to enter to find him at his desk with a decanter before him. Carson did not look up from the wine, did not need to as he heard John’s cane tap upon the stone floor. 

“Mr. Carson, I wondered if I might have a word.” John said, noting that a pile of presents was beginning to grow in the corner of Mr. Carson’s office. He wondered how many of them were for Mrs. Hughes. 

“Certainly, Mr. Bates.” Carson paused to check the level of wine in his crystal holder, sniffing snootily as he resumed decanting. 

John closed the door; god forbid Thomas pass by and catch wind of his plan. 

“It’s about James Kent, Mr. Carson.” John said, and he didn’t miss the way Carson automatically scowled at the name, “If you don’t mind me asking… why was he dismissed so suddenly the night after the fire?” 

If he was ever going to get Jimmy back in the house, he had to know why Jimmy had gotten kicked out in the first place. 

“It was a dirty business, Mr. Bates.” Carson seethed, bushy eyebrows nearly becoming a monobrow Carson’s brow furrowed over the wine decanter, “Something foul occurred the night of the fire which gave his lordship great distress in regards to James. He spoke with me while the firemen were still in the yard, and told me that James was to be dismissed at once. Given a reference, yes, but to be dismissed all the same. That there could be no negotiation. I have no other detail beyond that but…. I have plenty of assumption.” and at this Carson looked up at John with narrowed eyes. 

“… You’ll recall, Lady Anstruther was visiting that night.” Mr. Carson said. 

John fell back a little upon his cane, mulling it all over as Carson resumed decanting once more. It was clearly a de-stresser for the man. 

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” John said, more resolved than ever to speak to Robert and promptly. “I won’t trouble you on this again.” 

“A good thing James were sent away too-“ Carson added, more to himself than anyone else, “God only knows what he and _Barrow_ got up to when our backs were turned. Probably like rabbits- under his lordship’s roof no less-“ Carson strummed off into a string of dark mutterings. 

John’s inner mind was suddenly plunged into the image of Jimmy pressing Thomas up against the pantry wall, kissing the pants off of him before anyone else could see. 

He shook his head, eager to get on with his plan. 

 

Robert was decidedly more easy to approach than Carson, simply because John had seen Robert naked with and covered in mud during war. Everything was much chummier between the pair of them, all a game of banter and witty words as John prepared Robert for bed and helped him into his silk dressing gown. 

“May I speak with you on a difficult topic, M’lord?” John asked, as Robert refastened the belt of his dressing gown and John began to put away each of his dinner suit pieces for cleaning tomorrow. 

“Crikey not another drama.” Robert grumbled; John could not help but smile as Robert raised an eyebrow, “We’re full of them now a days aren’t we.” 

“Hardly new, M’lord.” John said, and he hoped it would put some of Robert’s fears to bed, “It’s about James Kent and the night of the fire.” 

Robert made a string of soft disapproving noises, shaking his head as Bates put away his vest and tie. 

“There’s another nasty business I don’t want to crack into.” John watched Robert thread his fingers through graying hair, slightly pained by the exhaustion of it all. “Why do you ask?” 

“May I be completely honest with you M’lord?” John asked, pausing even as he made to hang Robert’s jacket back in his wardrobe. 

Despite being Robert’s valet (and technically a servant), John did not feel his relationship with Robert to be one of servitude and submission. When he could speak freely with Robert, talk with him as one might an equal, it made him feel less like a servant and more like a man. A normal man; a business man. A man who happened to be in the business of making his best mate look spiffy. 

Or as spiffy as one could look in a housecoat with tousled hair. 

“I would appreciate it given all the lies I have to sift through on the daily.” Robert laughed, and just like that the pair of them were back in a bunker during the Boer war, joking over cheap whiskey and a pack of tattered playing cards. 

“I want to know if it would be possible to rehire him?” John said, but Robert shot him a look that was riddled with absolute irritation; John’s eyebrows rose at the sting. 

“Absolutely not. Not in a million years.” Robert declared. 

_Damn, Jimmy. What the hell did you do?_ John could not help but wonder. 

“Then I want to know why.” John said. Robert rolled his eyes, a stray hand dropping from graying curls to run wearily over his cheek. 

“Fetch me a whiskey-“ Robert nodded to the telling crystal bottle upon his mobile bar, tucked in the corner of his dressing room for the days when even pulling on a white tie required a stiff one. “And I’ll tell you the entire tale.” 

John did so. Robert collapsed into a leather arm chair, kicking his bare feet up on an ottoman as John took the moment to reach into his own vest for a pack of cigarettes. Despite having not smoked in twenty years, all it had taken was one damn cigarette with Thomas fucking Barrow to get him back on the bandwagon again. 

_Damn you, you little chit-_ John sighed, as he struck up a cigarette, offering one to Robert as well who declined with a wave of the hand. 

“Better not.” He added as John joined him in a spare armchair by the kindled fireside, “Cora will never let me hear the end of it.” 

John could sympathize. Anna had been bending his ear for four days now. 

_“When I kiss you you’re like an ashtray.” Anna had tittered as John pressed her sweetly into the mattress- his mouth was full of her swan-like neck and lovely golden hair. “If I wanted to kiss an ashtray, I’d go find Thomas Barrow-“_

_“If you kissed Thomas he’d run off screaming like a little girl-“ John had joked into her neck- Anna had laughed gayly, her hands winding around his back to tangle in his thinning hair. “So kiss me instead.”_

And so she had. Enchantingly. 

“Lady Anstruther was visiting that night, if you’ll recall.” Robert began, and John nodded as Robert began to suck thoughtfully upon his whiskey. It seemed to relax him; he fell back a little better into the armchair, and he gave John a small if bitter smile, “When Barrow raised the alarm, I sought to empty the rooms on the gallery floor; when I came into Lady Anstruther’s room… I found in bed. With James.” 

Bate’s eyebrows flew into his hairline.   
_That explains a lot_ , he thought. 

“In bed with my first footman. I can’t even grasp it.” Robert whimpered in his whiskey. “Should have just thrown that blasted woman out of the house- I had a feeling her car was fine. You know, Pelham looked the car over and could find nothing wrong with it? Nothing.” Robert narrowed his eyes at it, “No, the car wasn’t the problem. Now you see why I couldn’t possibly let him back on.” 

But the admission struck John oddly; he paused mid-smoke, his cigarette dangling thoughtfully in his hands as he considered the facts: 

Lady Anstruther had shown up out of no where, hardly a close friend to the Granthams or familiar with the Downton Estate. 

Mr. Pelham had found nothing wrong with the car. 

Despite the late hour, Thomas Barrow had been the one to raise the alarm on the fire when he should have (rightfully) been in the attics, resting. 

And James was caught in bed with Lady Anstruther. 

John narrowed his eyes, puffing on his cigarette to issue a thin trill of smoke. 

“Thank you, M’lord.” Robert rose from his chair, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray that Robert offered. “I understand. I think there’s more to it than either of us know, though-“ 

“Do you?” Robert’s mouth turned downward at the notion. He set the ashtray back upon a side table, finishing his whiskey so that the ice clinked loudly in his drained glass. He put his crystal goblet aside. “I should like to know what.” 

“I’ll find out for you, if you wish M’lord.” John said, though it was hardly a matter of Robert anymore. He was going to get to the bottom of this sticky affair before Thomas threw himself off a cliff to keep Daisy from taking off his shirt twice. 

“Please do.” Robert urged, relaxing back in his armchair again. “And keep me informed. That was a nasty business. I don’t want to be in the dark about it.” 

“Of course not, M’lord.” John fixed his tie a little better, pulling out a peppermint from his jacket pocket to pop it into his mouth. It wouldn’t put Anna off his scent for long but it would at least help his mouth taste less like an ashtray. “Of course not.” 

 

It took John a good two days to find a moment to get Thomas by himself; he’d been half hoping that Thomas might show back up in their garden desperate to fetch out their winter vegetables… but to Anna’s delight and John’s disappointment, Thomas did not show back up in their garden. Snow now fell on the regular, and traveling outside without a coat was a death sentence. 

Late at night, John would lay wide awake with Anna tucked peacefully into his side, her hand upon his large chest and her golden hair falling over his arm. One arm around her back to keep her close, and one arm behind his head to ease his neck, John thought of his entire life from start to present. Of every girl he’d ever kissed, and his marriage to that insufferable bitch. Of his courtship with Anna, and all he’d suffered for the sake of holding her. Of his father and mother, of Carson and Robert. Of his cottage. 

And he compared. 

He thought of what Thomas might have risked suffering for every boy he’d kissed in his youth. The worst John had suffered was a cuff around the ears when his father had caught him kissing a girl whose father he hadn’t liked. 

_“Get yourself a better girl, boyo!”_ His father had snarled, _“That ones a harlot!”_

He thought of what Thomas’ father might have said if he’d caught Thomas kissing a boy. He doubted Thomas would have gotten off so easy. 

He thought of his courtship with Anna, how every minute with her had been golden and blissful; how each day had dawned bright and crisp- how each week had slipped through his fingers like water. Time had lost meaning with his love to Anna. When he’d finally kissed her, finally known the taste of her upon his lips, John had fully understood the meaning of love and what it took to make a human heart beat. When he’d wed her, he’d felt like a man reborn. The ashes of Vera, the vile suffering he’d felt at her harpy claws was washed away… and he stood fast in Anna’s arms. Despite jail, despite fucking Greene- he and Anna had survived. 

If Thomas hadn’t intervened that day… Anna could very well be in jail; the idea made John shudder as if seized by a sudden cold wind. 

He thought of how Thomas had sat with Jimmy at the servant’s table- or outside smoking by the courtyard fence. He thought of how Jimmy had chased Thomas through the halls, the pair of them screaming at one another as Jimmy heckled Thomas mercilessly over some odd game or another while Alfred egged them on and Carson roared for them to ‘cease their infernal racket at once’. He thought of how Jimmy had played piano for Thomas as he read, back to the piano but sitting upon the piano bench as Jimmy spread his hands over the ivory keys and whispered some odd secret into Thomas’ ear. He thought of how Thomas had defended Jimmy so valiantly at every turn- till everyone knew that Jammy was untouchable if Thomas was around. Till everyone understood that despite not having societies approval or Jimmy’s returned affection… Thomas was for Jimmy; was Jimmy’s defender. 

John thought of how pale Thomas had been the day Jimmy had left. How Thomas’ eyes had been rimmed with red, inflamed. He’d said nothing through dinner, and had barely touched his plate. 

No one had commented on it, but everyone had known why. 

John’s father might have disliked him, but he’d never thrown him out nor compared him to the devil.   
John’s mother might have been disappointed in him, but she’d never given upon him.   
Carson might have his moments of irritation with John (to be fair he had them with everyone) but he’d never called John foul or compared him to an animal.   
Robert might crack a joke or two about his gate, when it was just the two of them- but Robert had never needed to throw his weight around to keep John from going to an asylum for kissing Anna.   
John might have had to go to jail to get his cottage… but at least he could get a cottage, flat out.   
At least he could marry Anna and call her his wife without risking an angry mob. 

John knew he was blessed. 

Two days after speaking with Robert, John found himself venturing around the servant’s hall trying to root Thomas out of his hiding spot. Mrs. Hughes was hard at work preparing the maids for Christmas while Carson decanted more and more wine- Mrs. Patmore was arguing with a visiting grocer with Daisy at her elbow and Moseley was was chatting up Baxter in the boot-room. Anna was upstairs, going over Lady Mary’s dress for the servant’s ball- it needed to be hemmed at the waistline. 

Robert had wanted some shoes shined, but John could easily do that before leaving with Anna for the night. 

No. Robert, could wait. He wanted to find Thomas and get to the bottom of this damn mystery. 

He rounded the corner of the servant’s dining hall and heard a familiar sultry voice cursing under his breath. 

_Steady boys,_ the familiar voice of Bates’ platoon Captain rang in his head from the Boer war, _We’re entering enemy territory._

_But he’s not your enemy!_ Anna’s voice added in his head, _He’s just sharp in the mouth._

Mr. Sharp-In-The-Mouth was currently working at the servant’s table, broken alarm clock in hand as he delicately unscrewed each bolt with loving care. The whole thing was such a jumble of parts, bent metal, and shards of stuck glass that John could scarcely imagine where one part stopped and another started. But Thomas seemed to know instinctively, working with a pair of needle nose pliers to pluck shards out from the back end of the clock. Like a weeping babe, it hiccuped a tick every now and then, desperate to keep time despite being broken. Thomas tutted, turning it over on its front every so often to check its hands. 

“Goodness goodness…” John heard Thomas murmur softly, “Such a fuss.” 

_He’s talking to it like it’s a person_ , John thought, finding the concept more amusing than disturbing. 

Thomas paused to take a sip of tea, nibbling on a ginger biscuit that Daisy had no doubt left for him, and looked up to see John standing in the doorway alone. Given that the servant’s quarters were vacant, Thomas looked mildly surprised to find him standing there. 

“Thomas.” John greeted him, waving a hand at the servant’s table between them, “I wondered if I might have a word.” 

“As you like.” Thomas said, returning his attention to the clock which hiccuped another tick. John sat down, propping his cane to watch Thomas resumed unscrewing the back plate of the clock. 

“Having trouble?” John asked, by way of starting conversation. Thomas shook his head at once, far from bothered as he gave John the tiniest smile. It was more like a grimace and on anyone else it would have appeared unfriendly. But on Thomas, it was pleasant and a sign of good will. 

John had a feeling it wouldn’t last. 

“Oh no.” Thomas paused, taking up a minuscule hammer to gently tap at a copper screw that was bent awkwardly on the back plate, “She’s just having a hard day; I’ve been working on her for a while now, she’ll come through if I give her time.” 

“She?” John glanced at the clock. 

“Mmm.” Thomas tutted, though he didn’t elude to more. 

“You’re talking about it like it’s a person.” John said. Thomas gave him another wince-smile. 

“Clocks are people.” Thomas said; John quirked an eyebrow in amusement, “I grew up with clocks, I understand them.” 

“That’s right your father was a clock maker, yes?” 

“Mmm.” Thomas continued working. John decided he wouldn’t press the subject further. 

“I have a question and… it may seem like it’s coming out of left field but… His lordship and I were discussing something and… I wanted to clarify the details with you-“ 

“Well go on then, I haven’t got all day.” 

“Why were you on the galley floor the night of the fire?” 

Thomas slowly looked up from his broken alarm clack, hammer paused mid-tap to hang precariously in the air. John smiled. 

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with James being in the bed of Lady Anstruther, would it?” 

Thomas’ eyes flashed. 

“Mr. Bates.” Thomas began, and John noticed his tone had changed from neutral and calm to sharp and acidic. “I do not have time to discuss such bleary trivialities-“ 

_Here comes the razor-_ John thought, gearing up for a fight. It was almost like old times except he didn’t want to ram Thomas’ head into the banister and Thomas didn’t seem eager to plot his demise. 

“So it did have something to do with it.” John cut across before Thomas could get another word in edge wise. Thomas glared, dropping his hammer back into his tool box to begin repacking his tools. 

“Why do you care?” Thomas snapped, feathering up loose screws into the palm of his gloved hand. 

“I have my reasons for caring.” John said; Thomas just snorted though he was far from amused. 

“And I have my reasons for silence.” Thomas replied. 

_Don’t get something for nothing, love-_ he heard Anna’s voice in his head. 

John squared himself at the table, and as Thomas reached out to take up the alarm clock, John shot out a hand to catch him by the wrist. Thomas’ hand was icy cold in his grip, the bones brittle and thin to the touch. Thomas looked up, eyes widening in slight caution. It seemed that despite their newfound camaraderie, Thomas was still nervous about him. 

John smiled to ease the tension; this time Thomas did not smile back. 

“I want James back in the house.” John said, “I want him to return to work here, so that you two can be together.” 

Thomas blinked, scoffed, and dropped his hand to the table with a flopping ‘thunk’ so that John could let go of his wrist. 

“My goodness.” Thomas said, as if John were a wayward child who’d been caught in the attempts of a wild feat, “You’re delusional if you think either of those things are even a remote possibility.” 

“If they’re not then what’s the harm in telling me the story?” John asked, inwardly priding himself for his cunning as Thomas squirmed noticeably in his seat. 

“I have my-“ Thomas made a slew of irritable noises beneath his breath, fists clenching and unclenching upon the table, “I don’t want Jimmy to get into any more trouble. I don’t want to get into any more trouble. I want to… carry on.” Thomas said pointedly, though he did not meet John’s eye, “Quietly.” 

The idea of Thomas Barrow doing anything quietly was laughable. 

“You’ve never done anything quietly in your life.” John leered. Thomas made a noise of unamused agreement, tilting his head one way then the next as he weighed his options. John just waited, certain that Thomas would come around if John gave him time. Thomas trusted him, John was almost certain of it. What he needed was… proof. Solid proof. John could offer him that. But Thomas needed to take the bait first. 

_Don’t be shy little fish._ John found himself thinking as Thomas opened his mouth only to close it again. 

Finally Thomas fixed John with a dull glare and began to speak, “When Lady Anstruther came, Jimmy was blindsided. He’d had no idea she’d be coming. He panicked.” Thomas tutted and rolled his eyes, lost in a memory, “She kept harassing him, sneaking him touches and notes; it was ridiculous the way she pursued him. Right in front of Carson. No shame.” Thomas shook his head, “No shame at all.” 

This was rather hot gravy coming from Thomas, who (according to Anna) had been such an open flirter at the breakfast table that Mrs. Hughes had nearly had a heart attack. 

“He had to do something to keep her quiet. So… I…” Thomas gestured, growing redder by the second, “I helped him. I snuck him… up to the gallery floor and made sure he got into her room safely.” Thomas sighed, looking very bitter indeed, “And stayed there.” He grumbled, “With the intent of sneaking him back down at three. Of course… that plan went out the window when Lady Edith accidentally set her bedroom on fire.” 

Thomas gave John a bitter smile. John grimaced at the memory; he’d flown into a panic when he’d heard Downton Abbey was supposedly ablaze, thinking of Robert and Carson and Hughes- of Daisy, Patmore and all the rest. 

He hadn’t thought of Thomas or Jimmy, he was ashamed to admit. 

“I tried to keep his lordship from discovering but…” Thomas swallowed, picking up the clock from the table. Thomas seemed to reconsider leaving, taking back out a flat head screwdriver to resume unscrewing the back plate, “I couldn’t. I had to protect Lady Edith. But god I wish I could have stopped him-“ 

“From barging into the room, yes I’m sure.” John sighed, rubbing the back of neck where a tension knot was forming. Thomas wouldn’t meet his eyes, a slight band of color upon his face. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.” and John truly meant it.

“There’s nothing to be done, Mr. Bates.” Thomas murmured softly as he unscrewed yet another bolt to plop it into his open kit, “This is my life. I’m content with it.” 

Content with what? Opium overdoses and courting women he did not love? Electrotherapy and crying like a babe at the scorn of an immature lover? 

“But it’s not the life you want-“ John said, his voice growing strong, for he knew this to be true. Knew it as he knew his own name. Thomas wanted Jimmy, Thomas loved Jimmy. Why settle for anything less? 

“Stop it.” Thomas whispered, his hands tightening a little around the clock. 

“Thomas I have a plan-“ 

“I don’t want to hear it-“ 

“Will you just listen to me-“ 

“I said I don’t want to _hear it.”_

“But what if there was a chance-“ 

“There is _NO CHANCE FOR ME!”_ Thomas suddenly shouted, the word like a match to dynamite as Thomas barred his arm and swept his teacup to the side. It flew from the table, saucer and all, and shattered upon the opposite wall to fall in soggy fragments to the floor. Thomas was wild, eyes wide and unseeing as he seethed at John from across the table, his chest heaving and his hair in a state of disarray. He looked like an animal- caged but ready to bite as he slammed his gloved fist hard onto the table. 

John did not so much as blink, familiar with violence and its spins. Thomas did not scare him. 

“There has never been, there will never be a chance for me!” Thomas pointed wildly at his chest only to thump his hand down on the table again. HIs eyes were softening now, growing hurt with repressed emotion. John could see the despair sparkling in Thomas’ eyes, “How is that so difficult for you to see?! Why must you meddle in my life?! Why must you bring up that night, when nothing we can do now will ever change it?! Don’t you know how it plagues me?! How it exhausts me?! Don’t you understand what I’d give to go back and make it right?” 

Thomas heaved one breath and then another, eyes dancing upon John’s face as he waited for John’s reply. The teacup lay forgotten on the floor. 

“… I do understand.” John whispered, somehow feeing that if he spoke above a hush that the moment would shatter. In that moment he could see Thomas so clearly, see the man in pain and the lover denied. Could see the soul that so desperately beat at its iron prison, bruising itself upon the bars as it screamed for release. John knew what it felt like, to be in a cage, “And that’s why I’m asking. I know what it feels like to lose control of your life, to watch everything you love slide away from you. I don’t want you to suffer that way. That’s why I stepped in when O’Brien was working her scheme.. and that’s why I’m stepping in now.” 

Thomas’ brow furrowed, his eyes softening even more as he took the tiniest breath. 

“You’ve changed to me, Thomas. Or maybe… maybe I just now see the good in you. And It’s worth fighting for. But the good won’t last- you won’t last- if you keep lying and killing yourself with Daisy and those pills.” 

“What do you know of the good in me?” Thomas demanded, his voice thick with emotion. It was a fair question after the ugly relationship they’d shared. 

“Before now?” John asked, “Nothing. Because you never thought I was worth sharing it with.” 

For a moment they sat in silence, Thomas cradling his broken alarm clock like one might a child or a kitten, his eyes dancing over the table, the clock, and finally landing upon the handle of John’s cane where it poked out above the edge of the table. There was something raw, something incredibly real in Thomas’ expression; John was captivated and could not look away. 

“I thought you’d hate me for being…” but Thomas could not finish the sentence.   
Thomas didn’t _need_ to finish the sentence. 

“Never.” John whispered. And he meant it to the core.   
He could easily hate Thomas for being a manipulative, lying, little bastard… but hate Thomas for being _different?_ No… that wasn’t in John’s character. 

He could remember in the Boer war, experiencing a fellow soldier by the name of Whitbey kiss him late at night, in the shelter of his tent where none but they two could see. Whitbey had been a close friend, an admirable fighter and a cheery youth who’d kept John company and in good cheer. John had thought Whitbey a proper chum, a true life friend, had failed to understand the way that Whitbey was looking at him. Had misunderstood just why Whitbey had wanted to talk to him so late at night, and alone. Whitbey had been so pensive, so quiet when usually he was cheery and bright. John had put a hand on his arm, had wanted to show support. 

And then Whitbey had leaned right in and kissed him. 

John had frozen, unsure of how best to say ‘I’m not like that’, and Whitbey had panicked. He’d practically bursted into tears, begging John not to kill him. Not to tell on him. To let him live, and to say nothing. 

_“Please, please!” Whitbey had whimpered, blue eyes spilling over with hot shameful tears, “Please I only thought-!”_

He’d been too terrified to say anymore, had simply dissolved into a wild wreck of sobs and clutched hair. 

John had never told anyone (save Robert) about that encounter. 

_“Well good for you, old man!” Robert had declared with a hiccup of glee, having had far too much whiskey in his tea, “I got me a kiss from Whitbey too. Charming little chap isn’t he? Though I don’t prefer blondes-“_

Robert, naturally, had had no concerns with kissing Whitbey back. Why not? They’d been at war. John had had more reservations.   
But none of them had been prejudice. 

Thomas was rubbing his mouth absently, a far off look on his face as he took in one shuddering breath at a time. His eyes fell on the shattered teacup. He sniffed, blinking back the wetness in his gaze as he gestured to it. 

“I broke the cup.” He whispered, voice tight. He sniffed again. 

“It’s alright.” John said; he noticed Thomas’ ungloved hand laying upon the clock, and reached out to cup it as gently as he dared. Thomas’ eyes flickered back to his face, looking from where their hands touched to John. 

 

“We can fix it.” John declared, courage filling him up, “I can fix it.” 

Thomas sucked in the tiniest breath.   
For the first time since September, John saw a flash of hope in them. 

 

The next morning, John returned to Robert with a new air of determination, certain he could win Jimmy a spot back in the house if he crafted his words to keep Jimmy in the roll of innocent victim and Anstruther in the role of scarlet woman. Robert was walking with Branson around the estate before Branson left for America, something that seemed to keep Robert in a chipper mood as John helped him into a thick wool vest and began to methodically brush his back. 

“M’lord, I have news regarding James.” John began, unable to keep a wry grin from twitching his lips as Robert raised an amused eyebrow. They were like children when they bantered. 

“Do tell, chap.” Robert selected a gold wristwatch- John paused brushing him to help him latch it, “Don’t keep me waiting then, let’s hear it.” 

“You’ll recall the night of the fire, it was Barrow who raised the alarm.” 

“I do.” And at this Robert gave a charismatic grin. “Jolly good luck he was on the gallery floor at such a late hour.” 

“Isn’t it though?” John dipped his head a little; Robert’s smile vanished in an instant to be replaced by a look of wary disregard. 

“Oh boy.” Robert muttered. 

“He was there for James, M’lord.” John chuckled. Robert just blinked, “Anstruther had been harassing James her entire visit. She’d come to harass him- her car had never broken down to begin with.” 

“What?” Robert demanded, quite affronted at having been lied to by a member of his own class. John shrugged, fetching Robert’s outer jacket and helping Robert to shrug it on. 

“James was once under employ and from what I understand she’d always taken a shine to him, M’lord.” John paused, his tone turning sinister as Robert’s brow twitched with ill conceived irritation, “She wanted more, and James couldn’t put her off. A lady of the upper class harassing a footman? He was pinned.” 

John laced his voice with sympathy now.   
_I’ll play you like a fiddle, damnit._ John thought, his mind focused on how Thomas’ eyes had lit up with hope. 

“He went to Thomas- Barrow-“ John corrected himself at once as Robert’s face grew lighter with knowing, “for help and they devised a plan to keep her quiet lest more embarrassment arise. Barrow snuck James up onto the gallery floor and was going to wait for him until three to sneak him back into the servant’s attic.” 

Robert looked down at the ground; John slowed up a little on the brushing of his jacket, careful not to go to fast lest their conversation be forced to end before he was ready. 

“… Barrow knew James was in that room.” Robert murmured softly, all the puzzle pieces finally laid flat upon the table for him to view at his leisure, “That’s why he wanted to be the one to check the rooms. He was trying to save James from being found out-“ Robert scoffed, looking up in dismay. John gave him a sympathetic smile. 

Yes, chasing after Thomas Barrow’s smoke trails was quite exhausting. John could sympathize after trekking around a frigid London for a day. 

“My god, why didn’t I register- I suppose the shock of the fire and nearly losing Edie-“ Robert’s use of Edith’s pet name as endearing to John. If he was using pet names, he wasn’t angry. “And you say that Anstruther was _harassing_ James?” 

“Yes, M’lord.” John said, his voice as grave as possible. Robert scowled, disgusted by the mere concept of a servant being chased about a house like a mouse running from a cat. 

This was why John liked Robert. Robert might have been a member of the upper class but he was hardly one to snub the troubles of the working class. 

“Sneaking touches and forcing notes-“ John tutted as he shook his head, putting down Robert’s brush to fix his jacket a little firmer upon his shoulders. Robert allowed the touch, eyes still narrowed in dismay at Anstruther's revealed antics, “She completely blind sided him when she came to Downton… he didn’t know what to do. Apparently she’d been harassing him through the post-‘ 

“And then she shows up out of now where so he can’t even avoid her there.” Robert finished in a bitter rush. John nodded. 

“Precisely M’lord. I felt like we did James a bad turn- how could he have avoided the situation? Lady Anstruther made it impossible. She was too far above him in social rank. To shy her would have been damning.” John paused, waiting with baited breath as Robert considered it all and tilted his head from side to side. 

Robert tightened his tie a little upon his neck, a sudden determination overcoming him. 

“… Bring Barrow to me when I return from my walk.” Robert said. “I don’t like having been kept in the dark about this.” 

John’s heart fell. 

_Damnit._ John thought bitterly. 

~*~

Carson had wine, Thomas had clocks.   
This one just happened to be in the kitchen. 

Something had happened, Daisy was unsure what, but Thomas was far from amiss as he gently stroked a tired wall clock back to life. Its gears were clogged with dust- it needed a thorough cleaning. Some oil and a good scrubbing would bring it back to life, Thomas was certain- everyone needed a bath from time to time. A nice deep soak- Thomas let out the tiniest sigh as scullery maids scooted past him and Patmore barked at Daisy to hurry it up with the luncheon. 

What he wouldn’t give for a long, hot bath. A proper bath, with a cigarette and a cup of cooling gray tea? A slice of lemon and a dollop of honey- Thomas would be in absolute heaven. 

He clenched and unclenched his damaged hand, his pinky and ring finger unable to bend in the frigid air that permeated the cellars during winter. 

“Thomas.” 

Thomas jolted from his reverie, looking over his shoulder with his hands still hand at work inside the wall clock; Bates was standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a strangely bitter look on his face. 

“His lordship wishes to speak to you in the library.” Bates said. 

Thomas’ heart skipped an unnecessary beat, his hands falling from the clock as he slowly wiped the oil and dirt from his hands with a dampened rag that sat upon a side table next to his tool kit. He could not help but glance over at Mrs. Patmore who, despite ordering a kitchen about like a captain would a war ship, was watching Thomas and Bates with knowing eyes. 

_‘Better go on then.’_ she seemed to say with a tiny jerk of the head. She looked as frazzled and Thomas felt. 

He hated being summoned by Lord Grantham. It made him panic over nothing and left him feeling like an idiot for the rest of the day every time it turned out to be nothing. 

The whole way up to the library, Bates didn’t say a word and looked like he was mentally kicking himself which Thomas could understand. They hadn’t been arguing in quite a while- if anything they’d seemed to be on the mend (which said a lot given their ugly history). After having Bates explain his end-goal the other night while Thomas had fixed his alarm clock, Thomas had felt sheer elation at the prospect of having Bates on his side. The idea of having Jimmy back in the house- of being with him again- was one that sent moths fluttering about in Thomas’ stomach. The very notion was too much to handle, too good to be true, so instead he contented his mind with thoughts of clocks and christmas gifts for Mrs. Hughes and Daisy. 

He was getting Daisy a hair comb, something that the hoped might bring the gold out a little better. As for Mrs. Hughes, he was getting her a brooch (though he wouldn’t be putting his name on the package and doubted she would even like his style in jewelry). After her understanding and consolation, Thomas could not help but feel like she was owed something. AT this point, it was almost a transaction instead of a friendship. He doubted Mrs. Hughes would ever look at him as a ‘friend’… but at least they could be on better terms. 

They reached the library, and Thomas opened the door for Bates to enter first. Bates stepped inside, his back straightening a little as Lord Grantham came into view by the fireside. He was taking tea, clearly having just gotten back from a walk, and looked to be in mildly amused spirits as Thomas stepped inside the door to shut it with the softest of clicks. Nearly fifteen years of working in service had given him the natural air of moving with fluid grace. His hands were pinned to his sides, his eyes fixed in a servant’s blank as Lord Grantham set down his tea cup and straightened his tie a little at his neck. 

_If I were your valet, I’d have picked you out a better tie than that._ Thomas thought with just the tiniest sting of bitterness. Bates had fetched him the oddest maroon tie that did nothing for Lord Grantham’s gray suit- honestly was Bates blind? He should have pulled out a blue tie, particularly with Lord Grantham wearing black shoes- 

“Barrow.” Lord Grantham greeted him; he clasped his hands behind his back, “I hate to bother you in the middle of the day so close to Christmas, I’m sure downstairs is a mess.” 

“Perish the thought your lordship.” Thomas’ voice was as smooth as smoke, his servant’s drawl as easy to slip on as a well worn glove. “We are well prepared for the rush.” 

_If you heard my real accent, you’d do your nut._ Thomas couldn’t help but think. 

“Good, then you won’t mind if I borrow you for a few minutes.” Lord Grantham said. Thomas’ lips twitched with just the tiniest bit of a smile. Lord Grantham could borrow him for twenty years if it kept Thomas off the streets and employed through winter. “I wanted to speak with you on a most… tense matter. One that I would appreciate your utter honesty on. I should like to think after working here for as long as you have, nearly fifteen years, we can be honest with one another.” 

Thomas’s eyes flickered to Bates, who still looked less than pleased.   
_Shit,_ he thought. _What the hell have you done? If you’ve told him about the therapy I’ll kill you. I’ll break your one good leg, I swear I will._

“M’lord.” Was Thomas’ tight reply. 

Lord Grantham came around the sofa, his stride slow and deliberate. Thomas likened it to a predator and felt his muscles stiffen in response. His heart picked up a beat or two in his chest. This was what he hated- what he despised- being cornered by an older male. It terrified him. 

“Tell me the truth about the night of the fire, Barrow.” Lord Grantham said, and Thomas was thrown so far off the scent in the confusion that Lord Grantham had to reiterate for effect, “The entire visit of Lady Anstruther. Tell me what really happened. Why you were on the gallery floor so late that night; why you so desperately wanted to be the one to check the rooms amid the panic.” 

Thomas barely held back his grimace, his heart hammering wildly in his chest as his eyes flickered over to Bates-

“Do not look at Bates.” Thomas jerked his eyes back to Lord Grantham at once. His tone was far from unkind but there was a stern edge in it that was similar to a father chastising a child. “Look at me, and tell me the truth.” 

Thomas knew without having to be told that Bates had told Lord Grantham everything, probably every word of their entire conversation. 

_Damnit, Bates! You stupid prat, I’ll have your neck for this!_ Thomas tried to steady his breathing, thinking fast as he attempted to salvage the situation. _Carry on quietly, didn’t you hear what I said? What about this is quiet, Bates?!_

“I-“ Thomas paused, closing his mouth again to rethink his words. He was suddenly before a massive muddy mine field, each step akin to putting a gun in his mouth if he made it wrong, “That is to say, I-“ 

Robert seemed to be aware that Thomas was on the verge of an anxiety attack; he took the tiniest step back but Thomas cherished it for the room it allowed him to breath. 

“Were you on the gallery floor that night to protect James?” Lord Grantham asked.

“Yes, M’lord.” Thomas managed to get out.

"And you were aware of what he was doing there?" 

Thomas' face flushed a heated pink at the image it conjured to mind. There was a time and place for thinking Jimmy Kent naked. None of them were before his lordship. 

"I was, M'lord." 

“And am I to understand James is the victim of this entire scenario?” Lord Grantham carried on. Thomas’ breath hitched a little at the word. 

Victim… had this been Bates’ idea? To sway Grantham? 

“Yes, M’lord.” Thomas’ eyes flickered to Bates. 

“But then the fire broke out.” Lord Grantham finished. 

“I had to protect Lady Edith, M’lord.” Thomas swallowed, trying to relax his throat. Trying to slip back on that servant’s voice, so smooth and controlled, “She came first, as much as I… cared for James. She came first.” He repeated. 

The bitter truth of the matter was that Thomas would have happily abandoned Edith in a heartbeat to protect James if he’d thought he could get away with it… but he daren’t go against Lord Grantham. Lord Grantham didn’t seem to register this, and for that Thomas was quite grateful. He wasn’t nearly as loyal to this damn house as Carson or Bates. Thomas was loyal to those that showed him kindness. 

Lord Grantham just happened to fall into a weird category of men who’d not only shown him kindness but also owned him like a slave. 

“Where is James now?” Lord Grantham asked, a morbid curiosity taking him over as he walked back over to the lacquered side table and picked up his half-finished tea cup, “I assume you are in contact?” 

“Y-yes M’lord-“ Thomas stuttered, a hundred questions eager to fall over his tongue. Why was Lord Grantham asking- did he want to contact James? Dear god, was he going to write to James? “He’s in London, playing in a jazz band.” 

“I can’t imagine such a life is stable.” Robert murmured. Thomas’ jaw nearly jumped into a frown before he could control his face. 

James, like Thomas, cared nothing for stability. James didn’t want a stable life, filled with decanted wine or polished silver. James wanted adventure, and champagne. James wanted to pursue flights of fancy and know keen fortune of good times. 

Thomas, however, was stuck behind four cement walls waiting to die under Carson’s heel. 

“I would not know, M’lord.” Thomas muttered with just the softest edge to his voice. Lord Grantham gave him a pitying smile. 

_Quite looking at me like that!_ Thomas wanted to screech, _You’re the whole reason I’m in this mess, you prat!_

“Thank you Barrow.” Lord Grantham finished his tea and set his cup back down again, “I appreciate your honesty.” 

“M’lord.” Thomas gave the tiniest bob of the head. 

“You both may go.” Lord Grantham dismissed the pair of them, not sparing a backwards glance as he ambled over towards the fireside to ring for a maid to clear his tea. Thomas turned, leaving with Bates on his heel so that as Thomas closed the library door again behind them both he and Bates were side by side. 

“Hello, chum!” Thomas hissed, his temper popping the minute it was safe to speak, “Meddle much?” 

“Come with me.” Bates said, and he jerked Thomas at the elbow to drag him off around the corner back to the servant’s stairwell which was mercifully emptied as a maid scuttled out to clear Lord Grantham’s tea. The pair of them sequestered themselves just inside the door, hiding in a gloomy alcove before anyone else could find them and bid for their attention. Thomas’ heart was still racing in his throat- he sponged at his neck and forehead, feeling a damp sweat there. Christ, he hadn’t planned on having a heart attack before noon! 

“I have a plan.” Bates began. Thomas cut him off in a hot rush. 

“Oh you better have, the way you’ve been carrying on! I thought we were turning over a new leaf or have you decided you preferred me as an enemy-“ 

“Listen to me, will you?” Bates urged, and the oddest smile began to creep over his face, “I’m trying to get Jimmy back in the house.” 

Thomas swallowed, a knot beginning to form in his throat at the mere suggestion. 

“I- I don’t think that’s possible.” Thomas admitted, for how could it be after such a catastrophe? 

“I don’t think so.” Bates was shaking his head, still smiling. 

“I-“ Thomas’ heart jumped again and again as he thought of Lord Grantham questioning after Jimmy’s current affairs. Could it be that Lord Grantham was going to extend an offer of employment out to Jimmy? 

Thomas put a hand over his mouth, fingers drumming upon his lips.   
But then he thought of Daisy, and the electrotherapy, an all the things standing in his way even if Jimmy should return. 

“I can’t get my hopes up.” Thomas muttered, not meeting Bates’ eye. 

“Allow me to get them up for you?” Bates asked, and there was such kindness in his voice that Thomas was taken aback. He looked up at Bates, marveled at the way Bates smiled- as if they were friends. 

As if they’d always been friends. 

“Let’s talk to the others- try to make some progress-“ Bates urged, “It could work, Thomas. It could work.” 

Thomas swallowed, the knot growing larger in his throat.   
“Do you truly think so?” Thomas asked. 

“Yes.” Bates nodded, and in an act Thomas couldn’t have foreseen despite his smiles and kind tone, Bates reached out to put a hand upon Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas looked down at the hand, reselling in its warm weight, then back up to its owner who was still smiling at him like they were chums. “I do.” 

Thomas couldn’t help himself; he smiled.   
Bates looked like he’d won a trophy over it. 

~*~

Robert had been easy to haggle information out of .   
Thomas had been even easier convince for hope. 

Anna had practically danced a jig when John had revealed his plan to her that night over dinner, and by the following evening the pair of them were in cahoots as they rounded up Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. Carson in his office. Thomas had been working with Moseley and the hall boys on pulling out the Christmas silver, and had seen them pass from the servant’s hall. 

John had raised his eyebrows knowingly at him- Thomas had looked ready to sing.   
He could practically hear Thomas now: _“I’m just wild about Jimmy, and Jimmy’s wild about me! The heavenly blisses of his kisses fill me with ecstasy!”_

Upon entering Carson’s packed office and revealing his desire to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes, he’d felt rather like a returning war hero for the looks of delight and praise they showered on him. Mrs. Patmore was flushed, her plump cheeks rosy despite the snowy weather outside. Mrs. Hughes had just beamed; she’d even clapped her hands together softly, threading her fingers together to prop her weathered chin upon them. 

Carson remained the only one unswayed, looking very irritated indeed as he sulked behind his desk and lightly fingered a loose piece of blank inventory paper. He alone seemed to find John meddlesome, which was just fine with John. He was pretty certain Carson found everyone meddlesome on a daily basis, _sans_ Mrs. Hughes of course. 

He would rather be meddlesome to Carson than a poor friend to Thomas. 

“Well.” Mrs. Hughes sighed a little as she fixed Mr. Carson with a sympathetic stare, “This situation is about to get messier.” 

“I’ll say-“ Mrs. Patmore huffed, dabbing a little at her brow as she looked to Mrs. Hughes for sympathy. “You know what’s going to happen the minute Jimmy walks through the door-“ 

“That’s precisely why it needs to happen.” John urged. Anna’s presence at his side strengthened him, made him feel capable of taking on Carson despite his strong opposition, “I spoke with James in London when Thomas sought electrotherapy. I saw them interact in private- I’m telling you, James loves him.” 

At this, Carson huffed furiously. Mrs. Hughes’ smile fell a little. 

John had to wonder if Mrs. Hughes ever felt disappointment at Carson’s staunch opposition to Thomas- to anything different. If only Carson were a little more open to change, to new things- Mrs. Hughes’ affections might grow even more. 

“Daisy’s going to be heartbroken.” Patmore spoke up after a moment of tense silence. 

“And I’m sorry for it.” John admitted; he hardly looked forward to the tears that were going to be shed, “I don’t want her to be hurt, but it can’t be avoided. It’s either she be heartbroken once or Thomas spend a lifetime suffering.” 

“And you have to agree that Daisy deserves to be with someone who actually loves her.” Anna added helpfully from John’s side. He smiled down at her; she winked up at him. 

_Always on your side,_ she seemed to say. Of course, of course. It filled John with a golden warmth that nothing could trample- not even Carson’s sour attitude. 

“This insanity won’t last if Jimmy returns.” John said. Hughes nodded in firm agreement, “Which is why he has to return if we are ever to set things right in this house.” 

“Utter nonsense.” Carson huffed under his breath. Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, hands dropping as she touched the keys jingling upon her hip idly. 

“.. It would be nice to have two footmen again, you have to agree.” Mrs. Hughes urged. At this Carson’s eyes narrowed (though hardly in suspicion so much as very deep thought, “The house running at full standard again? Won’t that be nice, Mr. Carson?” 

For a moment there was only silence as Carson weighed the odds upon his desk. 

Mrs. Hughes did not let her anticipation show upon her face, but it was obvious in the way that she slowly fingered her keys; she tightened and loosened her grip upon the iron. Waiting, waiting… _‘I know you to be a kind man’_ her eyes seemed to say _‘Don’t let me down’_. 

Carson caught her eyes, held them for only a fraction of a second, then rose from his desk. 

“Before I look into anything- and I am agreeing to nothing-!” He added thunderously, to which Mrs. Hughes nodded at once in avid sympathy, “I need a confirmation.” 

“Oh I’m sure James will confirm-“ Mrs. Patmore huffed. 

“No.” Mr. Carson shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Not that kind of confirmation.” 

Mrs. Hughes’ looked slightly puzzled for a moment, turning just an inch to the right to catch Mrs. Patmore’s eyes. 

“Mrs. Bates.” Anna’s eyes perked up at being addressed by Mr. Carson, “Will you fetch Mr. Barrow?” 

“Yes Mr. Carson.” Anna said, and she left at once for the servant’s hall where Thomas was no doubt still avidly at work with Moseley and the hall boys. 

Mr. Carson reached into his desk, pulling out a well worn pen which he uncapped and dipped in ink. John eyed it nervously. What kind of confirmation was Mr. Carson about to request of Thomas? 

_This isn’t good_ , John thought, eyes still locked on that pen. _This isn’t good at all._

Anna returned not a beat later, and just as promised Thomas was in tow. The nervous elation upon his face was palpable, the servant’s mask dropped completely to reveal a giddily hopeful man. 

God I hope this goes well. John prayed as Anna took her place once more at John’s side. John was pleasantly surprised when Thomas came to stand on his other side, the pair of them flanking John’s elbows in good company. 

Mr. Carson gave Thomas a scathing look, but it hardly punched Thomas’ delight. He was so hopeful, so desperate for good news, that Mr. Carson’s irritable disposition hardly seemed to register with him. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Carson said, and the dislike in his voice was so obvious that John wished he could roll his eyes. Clearly someone was un eager to get off the cross, “I have just been discussing certain… possibilities… with Mr. Bates, but before I can agree to look into anything, I must firstly have your word.” 

“My word?” Thomas repeated, hesitant hope dropping just a hair as he narrowed his eyes at the insinuation. John’s eyes were back on the freshly inked pen. What kind of confirmation was Mr. Carson about to get out of Thomas? 

“If I ever allow James back in this house,” Mr. Carson began with sinister implication, “Which I highly doubt I even will, I will only do it on one condition, for which I’ve called you here. Before witnesses as well, I’ll mark you!” 

Thomas grimaced, eyes dancing from Mrs. Hughes (who was decidedly concerned) to Mrs. Patmore (who looked ready for a large sherry). 

“Condition?” Thomas repeated again. 

“If I choose to hire James back on, I will only do it with your word that nothing foul will occur in this house.” 

Everyone bristled.   
Mrs. Hughes made the tiniest noise of irritation behind clenched teeth, bowing her head as she pursed her lips in frank disappointment. Mrs. Patmore’s eyebrows were so high they were on the verge of disappearing into her frizzy hairline. Anna was clearly embarrassed, and John knew why: Anna did not enjoy the idea of romance being turned into a lewd or open affair. She only let her hair down in the comfort and sanctuary of their home. 

John wouldn’t stand for it, Thomas being so poorly treated on such a difficult subject. Did Carson really need Thomas’ confirmation? 

“Mr. Carson-“ John began, eager to fend him off, but Carson would not be swayed. 

“Mr. Bates, if you please.” Carson snapped, for the first time taking a sharp tone with John. John kept quiet, waiting for his next opportunity with all the prowess of a panther. As soon as Carson gave him an opening, he was taking it before this conversation slipped into disaster. The ugly look upon Thomas’ face, which was now so pale that it rivaled the unblemished paper upon Carson’s desk, was enough to warn John they’d already fallen into a death trap. It wasn’t so much a game of abating Mr. Carson now as it was a combat to keep Thomas from jumping down Mr. Carson’s throat- 

A decidedly more difficult war to wage, given Thomas’ ability to fly off at the handle. 

“You have a penchant for ritual humiliation.” Thomas spat out. 

“Do I have your word?” Carson kept pressing, a finger up in warning. If anyone knew a thing or two about baiting Thomas’ temper, it was Carson…. though John came in close second, surely. 

“Naturally!” Thomas’ tone grew hot, his high cheekbones flushing in horrible embarrassment as that fateful night was suddenly drug back out to current misfortune, “Though why you should need me to verbally confirm what you already know, I couldn’t tell you-!” 

“I want your signature.” Carson warned, and at this Thomas let forth a slew of spluttering indignations. 

“What?”

“I want you to sign your name that you will not make any more attacks.” but at the word ‘attacks’ Thomas jerked back, color fleeing from his face to return him to a pale and sweaty complexion. “You are making great strides in your personal behavior, and I should be remiss to see them slip for the sour sake of one ridiculous preening footman. I only want what’s best for you-.” 

“Oh I highly doubt that!” Thomas snarled, turning back on Mr. Carson in an growing temper. Patmore had her head in her hands now while Mrs. Hughes raised her eyes to the ceiling as if to ask god for help. They were like a misfit family, the patriarch and the wayward eldest son fighting at the dinner table so that everyone’s meal was disturbed. “I think you just like dragging me through the dirt! I think you get something out of it-!” 

“Thomas, all male staff are under my supervision!” Carson’s voice was just getting louder and louder, and unlike Thomas his own wrath just seemed to make him grow larger so that despite Thomas being close to six feet tall, Mr. Carson seemed to make him shrink down to Anna’s size. Thomas paled, taking a step back as his lips pursed, “That includes you, and, should he return, James! We have already had trouble! I do not wish for any more to occur, particularly when I have already stretched my patience on this particular matter as far as it should rightly go. Any lack of self control, any new attack, will be met with strict opposition- I would say this of any-“ 

“Strict opposition?!” Thomas latched onto the word, and in a moment of a fiery temper, Thomas stormed over the wall where a row of hooks were home to a series of house keys. Thomas snatched up the key for the groundskeeper’s shed, wrenching it right off the wall as he turned to storm back to the door. Anna quickly stepped out of his way lest she be run over, reaching up to grab John’s arm as Thomas brushed hard past hard her. “Oh well if that’s what you want, wait just a moment!” and with that he burst from the room to storm off down the hall towards the back door. Carson watched him go, flabbergasted. 

“Thomas-!” Carson shouted angrily after him, “Get back in here- infernal boy!” Carson huffed as he slumped back into his seat, rubbing his heavy brow aggressively. John had very little sympathy for him. 

“Mr. Carson was it really necessary to get him to do that in front of all of us-?” Mrs. Hughes demanded, and there was just a touch of anger in her voice that was far from amiss. Patmore was still rubbing her brow, still looking ready for a sherry. Anna said nothing, mute at John’s side with her hand still on his arm. 

“Yes!” Carson thundered, and he looked incredibly disheartened that Mrs. Hughes of all people should doubt him in such a moment, “I will not have him kissing men in their sleep- whatever insanity possessed him to do such a stupid and irresponsible thing the first time must not be allowed to happen again!” 

But John could only think of how Thomas had sat slumped upon his couch, clutching a lukewarm cup of tea without a coat to keep out the cold. 

_“All my… work… all my secrets… all my hiding. For nothing. And Jimmy could see everything. And… I snapped.”_

“Mr. Carson, O’Brien was behind the entire thing!” John burst out. Anna clutched his arm tighter in warm agreement. “Thomas didn’t act on a violent whim-!” 

“I never said the whim was violent-“ 

“You called it an attack, Mr. Carson-!” 

“You cannot deny that it was an attack, Mr. Bates. Or do you forget how James nearly called the authorities? And where did he go off to?!” Mr. Carson had grown distracted, craning his neck a little to the right as if hoping to see Thomas hiding in the hallway with the key to the groundskeepers’ shed. 

“He said ‘just a moment’, I’m sure he’s coming back.” Mrs. Hughes’ voice was rushed in her growing irritation, “But was it really necessary to get him to sign a document over it all?” 

“Yes!” Mr. Carson was once again affronted to be questioned by her, “I want his word, and frankly the word of a notorious liar is not one I take kindly to. If he attacks James twice, what am I to do-?” 

“But I keep telling you, it wasn’t an attack!” Bates urged, “Thomas kissed James, he didn’t clock him in the eye!” 

“That is hardly any better!” Mr. Carson cried out in dismay. “Honestly am I the only one with common sense in this house anymore?” 

At this, John turned to Anna, and narrowed his eyes at her with poorly placed humor that was straying into the realm of anger at the insanity of it all. Anna knew it wasn’t for her- she took it in her stride with a bitter smile. 

“Well, Anna, the next time you kiss me feel free to sock me in the jaw as well.” 

“Don’t tempt me Mr. Bates.” Anna warned with a mischievous twinkle in her baby blue eyes, “I have a mean right hook.” 

John could not help but quirk a grin at the idea of Anna punching someone in the face. Preferably O’Brien… or perhaps Vera. 

Yes, the idea of Anna punching Vera in the face was a delightful one. His grin grew downright evil. 

“Mr. Bates-“ Mr. Carson was exasperated by this point, attacked by all sides, “I only meant to say-“ 

But whatever had been Carson’s intention to say was lost as Thomas finally returned. He was flushed, snow dotting his black hair and color tinging his cheeks a bright pink at he cold he’d no doubt faced outside without a coat. In his hand he held the gamekeeper’s key and a horsewhip, which he slammed down onto Mr. Carson’s desk with such contempt and force that it made the ink pot jump in its pewter stand. 

“There you go!” Thomas declared, and the loathing in his voice was so thick that it could have coated a cake. Carson spluttered, taken aback, “Your strict opposition. Just in case I slip in my self control, I’ve saved you some time to the shed. I’m sure the groundskeeper will find you a decent whipping post although I suppose you could just use the rail banister if you’re in a penchant for time!” 

A beat of awkward silence passed as everyone stared at the horsewhip with gaping mouths. 

_Damn, Thomas._ John could not help but think, _Don’t tempt him._

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas spat, and with that, he left slamming the door behind him so that several pictures moved a hair upon the wall. 

John expected Carson to rant, to rave, to demand Thomas resign at once or at least take Thomas up on his offer and chase after him with the horse whip. Instead, Carson simply looked down at the horsewhip like it was a live snake and clenched his hands tightly into balled fists. 

“What on earth was that about?” Mrs. Hughes demanded, gesturing from the horsewhip to Carson. 

“Is that a horsewhip?” Mrs. Patmore could hardly believe it. 

Carson said nothing, rendered speechless as he reached down to gently pick up the horsewhip by its black leather handle. The leather tongues at the end were frayed from use- given the right amount of force though they could make for a horrifying weapon. 

John had seen what could happen to men like Thomas if they were set upon with a whip. The meaning behind the taunt was clear. 

“Did you say something to him?” Mrs. Hughes’ voice turned the tiniest bit wary as she took up the horsewhip from Mr. Carson’s desk so that it would not clutter his papers. She held it lightly in her hands, offering it up to the air before him so that none could deny its ugly presence. 

“Once.” Carson finally admitted, and with a weary huff he retook his place behind his desk. He sounded bitterly disappointed, “I daresay he never forgot.” 

~*~

It was one thing to be hounded by Mr. Carson, it was another thing altogether to be ignored by him. 

After popping a screw and nabbing a spare horsewhip from the grounds keeper’s shed, Thomas suddenly found himself on the fringes of the upper four. Clearly a conversation had occurred between Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore without Thomas present, for all three were of a likened mindset now to avoid him if at all possible under the preconceived excuse of the christmas rush. Christmas was still a week and a half away, and frankly even if it were two days before Thomas had a feeling Carson would be riding him mercilessly instead of avoiding him like the plague. 

It made Thomas paranoid, and in his paranoia he usually became vicious. Now there was no one to become vicious to; his old enemies were now friends (or at bare minimum mild acquaintances). The one Thomas really wanted to burn against was Carson, but he dare not exhibit any more irrational behavior after his wild outburst with the horse whip. Instead, Thomas treated Carson with coldest contempt, feigning to acknowledge his presence when he walked into a room and merely replying with a curt “Mr. Carson” to any order he was given. To his credit, Mr. Carson didn’t so much give him orders as he gave him lists… List after list of inventory. Thomas took it all in his stride, burying himself in paperwork to avoid having another conversation with Carson that might involve a ‘contract’ 

The next paper Carson made him sign, Thomas would use his own blood for ink. 

Which was why, when Carson finally did approach Thomas for more than a two-second inventory check Thomas’ temper was already up in arms and ready to do battle. Sequestered in the back corner of the servant’s hall by the piano where Jimmy used to play, Thomas brooded over a cigarette and went over his six steps to murder. The upstairs dinner was done and dusted without incident. Give another fifteen minutes, it would be time for the servant’s dinner. 

He fingered Jimmy’s letter, still tucked safely inside his vest pocket.   
Bates had urged him not to give up hope, and so Thomas wouldn’t.   
Perhaps his lordship would make Carson come around. Who was to say Jimmy wouldn’t be back by christmas? 

_Merry Christmas to me_ , Thomas thought in a darkly comical twist. Jimmy returning would solve none of his problems with Daisy, nor make it any easier to find acceptance within society… but at least Thomas would be able to see Jimmy’s dazzling smile again. Be able to share cigarettes, piano benches, late night talks, and card games. That would be more than enough. 

“Mr. Barrow, might I have a word?” 

Thomas slowly looked up, eyes trailing at a snail’s pace along the piano keys to finally rest on Mr. Carson who was standing at the door to the servant’s hall with a resigned and bitter look upon his heavy face. 

Thomas suddenly found himself subjected to a wide array of powerful emotions, from hope at the prospect of gaining back Jimmy to the bitter hatred of having to speak with a man who thought his so plainly foul. 

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in a loaded ashtray atop the piano, and stepped back from the bench; he took an unnecessary moment to re smooth his hair back and tug at the bottom of his dark green vest. 

Leaving the servant’s hall on Mr. Carson’s tails, Thomas felt rather like a gladiator walking into a coliseum. 

They entered Carson’s office, and Carson shut the door behind Thomas so that the pair of them were quite isolated in their little duel. Carson retook his seat behind his desk, and laced his fingers atop it to give Thomas an uncomfortable stare. 

Thomas folded his hands behind his back, and waited. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with lordship on the subject of James Kent returning to this house.” Mr. Carson said. 

Thomas’ heart rose, his pulse beginning to flutter as Carson met his eyes. That resigned bitterness could only mean one thing… 

“I’m afraid it’s simply not going to work.” 

Thomas suddenly felt like he were underwater, a foreign pressure invading his ears and rendering him mute as he gaped at Carson; his hands slipped from behind his back to hang limply at his sides. Thomas spluttered, gesturing to Carson in dismay. It didn’t make any sense! They had only one footman, and Christmas was almost upon them! Thomas certainly wasn’t going to demote himself for the Mr. Carson’s peace of mind, and Moseley couldn’t do it all by himself! They needed a second footman, it would help the house run at full speed again- Carson wanted order and tradition! There was nothing traditional about having only one footman-! Surely-… but Carson was shaking his head, and Thomas heard an ugly noise slip past his lips as his servant’s blank shattered with the force of a glass being smashed into stone. 

“I’m afraid it goes against my principles, Thomas.” Mr. Carson kept his tone level, but his eyes flashed dangerously, “Against his lordship’s principles. Against every decent person’s principles- to lay about with a guest of his lordship as if he were raised in a barn-“ 

“He were blackmailed!” Thomas cried out, his Stockport accent ugly and raw against Carson’s clipped tone. “He weren’t tryin’ t’harm! It weren’t his fault!” 

“Thomas, I cannot allow him back in the abbey. I never should have hired him on in the first place! That is my final say.” At this, Carson thumped his fist hard onto the table, “His lordship does not want him back, and I do not want him back-“ 

“But I do-!” Thomas blurted out, unable to stop himself as his emotions spilled forth. The dam was broken, and there could be no stopping Thomas’ desperation as a lifetime of loneliness stretched out before him. He could see it all, see that marriage aisle and Carson dragging him up it with Daisy waiting at the end. He wanted to run, to scream, to hide. “Please! Please, I need him. We need him in the house- we have great need for him. Please.” 

“I cannot put the needs of the few about the needs of the many, and none above the needs of his lordship.” Carson would hear none of it, his tone never rising but his position clear. Exasperated noises flew past Thomas’ lips as he bowed his head. “I do not believe for a second that James Kent benefited this house, and though we do need another footman, we will not be finding it in him. He is exactly where he needs to be- in London and away from you!” And at this, Carson pointed to Thomas vindictively. 

“You know what would happen if James were to return- your behavior would suffer and plummet. Back into old habits, which I will not stand for.” Carson added with another thump to his desk. “James Kent cannot return. I will not allow it. That is my final say on the matter. We shall not discuss this again.” 

Thomas stood there for a moment, shaking in suppressed rage and heartache as his mouth ground out the bitter phrase of “Mr. Carson” and his hands shook at his side. 

He didn’t know what to do now; he didn’t know where to go. He was two seconds away from crying, but knew he couldn't’ in front of Carson. 

He needed air, space- to breathe or throw up or scream or whatever the hell else. Thomas couldn’t even make heads or tails of the situation anymore. All he knew was the horrible ache within him, the bone grinding crunch that never failed to suck away his strength. 

He left Carson’s office, wrenching the door open and slamming it closed behind him to storm up the hall for the courtyard mindless of the mirage of faces and voices around him. 

Yet when he saw John Bates leave the boot room, Thomas gave pause. A terrible rage mounted within him, a violent gale that swore Bates to be the root of all his suffering. Bates had given him hope, had dared to tell him there was a chance when it fact there was none. Bates had probably known from the beginning, had probably just wanted Thomas to suffer more. Yes-! Yes that made sense. This was all some game to Bates, some ugly little game. Some sour, bitter little game to get back at Thomas for all the years Thomas had been acerbic or tempestuous. 

He’d made Thomas get his hopes up. He’d played with Thomas’ emotions.   
And that was unforgivable. 

“You-!” Thomas shouted in a rage, and Bates looked about in confusion to find Thomas shaking in the hallway. Bates took a step forward, clear concern written upon his features- Thomas stepped back. He would not allow Bates any closer, would not allow Bates to lie to him again after such a betrayal! 

“I trusted you!” Thomas howled, and the bitter truth of it all stung him. That he had been so gullible as to believe, so utterly foolish as to hope, “I trusted you and you lied to me! You made me think I stood a chance! You made me think I had hope! You bastard! You utter bastard!” 

But Thomas could not spare another word, could not bear to stand before Bates for a mere moment longer when his emotions were spilling out- when he was so raw and vulnerable. 

Thomas made a mad dash for the stairwell, eager to get up them and away from the servant’s hall before anyone could stop him or see his face. The humiliation, the rage, the sheer embarrassment from having hope only to watch it be dashed to pieces made Thomas want to crawl under a rock and never come out again. He felt like a fool, a world class fool, and when he finally reached his room he slammed the door to lock it with a chair jammed under the knob. 

He wanted to scream, he wanted to vent- to rage until he had no voice anymore.   
And so he did. 

Thomas went wild, grabbing his spare clock from atop the mantel to hurl it wildly across the room. It shattered upon the opposite wall, glass and cogs flying everywhere as the wreckage clattered to the floor. Thomas grabbed the pictures off the wall next, flinging them one after another across the room until broken glass covered the floor in a macabre carpet. 

One after the other, Thomas threw every clock he'd made; the mirror atop his bureau went next, and without thinking Thomas hurled the picture of Edward Courtenay-

"Ah- no!" Thomas cried out, but it was too late. His slip in judgement had sent the picture flying, and it shattered against the opposite wall with enormous force. Edward's picture fluttered to the ground, free of its framed prison along with Sybil's letter and the defaced letter he'd sent from the war office. 

He stumbled across the room, broken glass crunching under foot as Thomas reached down to pluck up Edward's photograph with shaking hands. Shards of his broken mirror caught different angles of his face so that suddenly there were twenty Thomas Barrow's in the room instead of only one. Each reflected a different hue of misery- each was a stranger lost in a strange world. Each one existed without Jimmy Kent- and so now Thomas' suffering was magnified by double. 

To know that, even if he had twenty chances- twenty lives- he'd still never see Jimmy Kent again. 

Sinking down into a pool of broken glass, wood, and metal cogs, Thomas let his head hang back upon his shoulders. He groaned, a low traitorous sound filling his room as he whimpered and whined, waiting for the world to end. 

That night Thomas slept upon the floor, his livery unchanged. 

~*~

 

Three days passed. 

Thomas rose, washed, ate breakfast, worked, ate supper, and slept. He neither spoke nor sought conversation, instead living amid a miasma of depression that swallowed him whole with every step he took. His room remained in a state of absolute chaos, with glass upon the floor and clock parts strew everywhere. Was there light in the world? He couldn’t tell. At times, it seemed like there was cause for talk- Christmas was approaching or so people swore. But Thomas was lost to it, couldn’t see it or understand it. 

He felt devoid of purpose, absolutely lost in the fog. 

Bates kept trying to talk to him, trying to drag him into the boot room, or the kitchen pantry, or the courtyard, but Thomas wouldn’t have it. He didn’t want to talk to Bates anymore. He didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Hughes anymore. He didn’t want to talk to Phyllis, Patmore, Anna, Moseley, or Mr. Carson anymore. He didn’t want to talk to Daisy anymore. 

He simply wanted to sit on the piano bench, and be left alone to grieve the passing of hope. The death of light. 

But there were some people Thomas could not avoid, some people whose beck and call he would always have to take heed to (at least while he lived at Downton), and so when Lord Grantham called for him again in the library Thomas found himself trudging upstairs with as much enthusiasm as King Louis the fourteenth probably took to his execution. 

On a normal day, when the sun was shining and Thomas wasn’t contemplating running away to France, Thomas could enter the library at his lordship’s command with his head held high wearing the servant’s blank. Today, however, a damp weary cold settled over Thomas’ bones till he felt forty years his actual age. 

All he could do was summon a look of benign calm, something strikingly similar to the servant’s blank though it lacked the professional edge. He wore it as best he could when he entered the library, all the while thinking that he’d rather jump out a window than have another conversation with Lord Grantham again. 

Thomas’ stomach turned sour when he saw who was standing next to him. 

Bates did not look happy, thin lips pursed into a bitter frown as Thomas scowled at him from across the room and desperately tried to school his expression into one of mild contempt. It wouldn’t do to have his lordship see emotion, but Thomas was tired… so very tired. 

And he still had broken glass to clean up in his room. 

“Barrow.” Lord Grantham greeted him with an odd mixture of understanding and resignation, which did not set Thomas’ nerves to ease as Lord Grantham even gestured to the leather sofa. “Won’t you sit.” 

Thomas coughed, reaching timidly behind his back to clasp his hands as he forced his face into a mask of calm. 

“I shouldn’t dare, M’lord.” Thomas finally managed to get out, “It wouldn’t be proper.” 

Lord Grantham seemed to accept that, though Bates rolled his eyes as if he found Thomas’ attempt at humility funny. The fact of the matter was, Thomas would set the sofa on fire and dance around it naked if he had the opportunity… but he doubted Lord Grantham would be pleased. 

It would also be a serious road block in returning to his room to sleep undisturbed. 

“I would like to speak to on the subject of James Kent.” Lord Grantham began. He paused when Thomas shuddered and looked away. 

Christ he was so tired. 

“Forgive me, M’lord.” Thomas muttered, though he did not meet Lord Grantham’s eye for fear of what he might find waiting there. Irritation? Indignation? Pity? God help him, “But I don’t know what good it would do… to rake up that subject again.” 

For a moment Lord Grantham seemed to consider the idea of simply letting Thomas be, and taking his word for it. But then Bates caught his eye, and one eye jerk later Thomas suddenly found himself once again confronted by a pitying Lord Grantham who seemed determined to talk to him despite the pain it would cause. 

_Fucking upper class._ Thomas could not help but think with an enormous wave of bitterness, _They send you to Eaton and still you botch up social interactions._

Lord Grantham steeled himself with a heavy sigh, and began. 

“After the other night, I’m afraid that my words on the subject of James Kent’s possible return gave you a false sense of hope regarding what could be expected.” Lord Grantham said, his tone gentle despite its proper clip. Thomas swallowed, his heart beating wildly in his chest at the mention of Jimmy’s name. The humiliation was starting to well up inside him all over again. 

“The truth of the matter was that regardless of how Bates personally felt, the chance of Mr. Carson or I overseeing such a grievous error on Kent’s behalf was a very small one. A minute one.” Lord Grantham added with the slightest bob of the head. He paused, and Thomas realized his face was become emotionally charge. He desperately tried to hold back his expression, but couldn’t manage it for long as another wave of humiliation and anger hit him. 

Minute didn’t mean zero… Did it? Surely there was still some chance. Some tiny chance somewhere- 

“We were speaking in vague ideas, not concrete facts, and I feel now that we should not have included you on the discussion until we had made up our minds.” 

“But…” Thomas was horrified to hear how tight, how throaty, how broken his voice sounded now. He blinked rapidly, his eyes burning as his throat clenched. He desperately held his ground, “But Bates said-“ Thomas gestured to Bates who shifted guiltily at Lord Grantham's side. 

“Bates was trying to give you hope.” Lord Grantham corrected. Thomas shuddered, sentence after sentence dying in his mouth as Lord Grantham carried on with the greatest care, “It was an act of kindness, not done in spite.” 

Thomas swallowed again, but it was growing increasingly hard to gain breath. He looked to Bates and found him nodding in confirmation, solemn. He looked back to Lord Grantham, his heart fluttering up to his throat like a little bird desperately trying to escape. 

Kindness, not spite.   
Thomas had never been on the receiving end of such a soft blow before. It was as if someone had hit him with a pillow when he'd been expecting a brick, leaving him cringing over nothing and utterly confused. 

“Nothing was done to spite you, Thomas.” Lord Grantham said, and it was a mark of the moment that he used Thomas’ Christian name, “And I feel like you’ve been wronged in this situation, and I apologize for my part in it.” 

“But…” It wasn’t a spoken word, just a noise upon the air from the tightness in his throat. Thomas desperately fought to keep a hold of his facial expressions, his brow and lips jumping from the panic inside him, “If you just… gave him a chance-“ 

_Give him a chance. Give me a chance. Please. Just one chance, please-! Can’t you see-?_

“I gave him a chance, Thomas.” Lord Grantham said, not unkindly. Bates let out the tiniest sigh at this, his eyes locked on Thomas’ as Lord Grantham continued on. Thomas could tell Bates didn’t agree, and it moved him deeply in that moment , “I give all my staff chances, and I overlook a great deal. You’ll remember how much I’ve overlooked for you alone.” 

Thomas swallowed again and again but it wasn’t enough. The misery wasn’t abating. He was losing the war on his emotions. In front of his lordship of all people. 

_Please-_ he wanted to whimper. _Please don’t let me die like this. Can’t you see I’m dying?_

“I can overlook many things.” Lord Grantham said, “But not sleeping with the nobility. Not in such a reaching and vile manner-“ 

“He’s not he first-“ Thomas blurted out, ready to throw himself upon the sword in his emotional crisis. “I-“ 

But Lord Grantham held up a hand and Thomas’ confession died in his throat. 

“Thomas.” Lord Grantham whispered his name, giving him a knowing if not final look, “It’s just not going to work. And that’s the end of the end of the subject.” 

_What's wrong with you?_ Thomas was suddenly out of words- his mind awash in a sea of misery and broken mirror shards waiting in his room. _What's wrong with you people? You're monsters. You're letting this happen to another human being, and you're monsters._

He nodded to both Thomas and Bates in turn. 

“Excuse me.” He said before gliding away, polished shoes soft upon the rich carpeted floor. Lord Grantham left the library much as he had entered it, calm and in control of his world. Meanwhile, Thomas was shattered, heart falling to pieces upon the floor as his emotions spilled out from his eyes and mouth. Pathetic demeaning sounds bubbled from between his lips as he hung his head, thick tears spilling from between his lashes to drip down his gaunt cheeks. 

He didn’t know what broke him more, what robbed him greater: the fact that Jimmy’s dismissal was final or the fact that John Bates had fought so hard to get him back. 

No one had ever fought for Thomas before. No one had ever held his corner but him. 

Perhaps that was why Thomas had thought John was spiting him before, trying to goad emotion out of him instead of help him find release. Lord Grantham’s explanation shed a different light, and made Thomas realize that from the get go John Bates had been trying to do what no one else had ever done. 

John Bates had been trying to help him find happiness. Peace.   
It had failed but… it had been an honest attempt.   
And that moved him. 

“John…” Thomas whispered the name, eyes pinched tight as his shoulders heaved.   
Several foot falls and cane taps across the carpet later there were warm arms around him. 

Thomas could smell the spice of an aftershave and the familiar sting of Brilliantine at the juncture of John’s neck. The edge of something citrus he could not place- a combined aroma that was distinctly John. 

His hands were tight upon Thomas’ back, his cane oddly held despite how his arm kept Thomas close. Thomas reached up and though it was foolish he grabbed onto the lapels of John’s jacket. Much in the same why that Thomas had held onto his spare clock, to his photo frames, he now held onto John. For dear life, for the sheer need to touch something and feel alive. To feel his existence in the universe in the hands of another. 

_I don’t want to die,_ Thomas thought hysterically. _I don’t want this to be the end of me._

“I’m sorry, Thomas.” John Bates murmured softly in his ear. John Bates, the man. John Bates, his friend. 

His _friend._   
“I tried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed that update. Please review if you enjoyed; I'd love to know what your thoughts are. Once again, thanks so much for reading... I'll see you next update! :)


	15. Carson's Christmas Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days before Christmas, Thomas received another letter. 
> 
> His reply to Jimmy’s first letter had been an odd thing. Part of him had wanted to gush all his woes, part of him had wanted to keep it detached, and so Thomas’ end result had been a miserable and short thing praising Jimmy’s talents but revealing nothing about his sickness or his affair with Daisy Mason. He’d felt almost guilty when he’d put it in the post the next day, and had wondered if Jimmy had found him cold or rude when he’d finally read it. The idea of being rude to Jimmy was so foreign to Thomas that it almost made him sick to consider. 
> 
> But what could he do? At this point he was pegged. He could never be with Jimmy, Jimmy could never return… At this point it was torture just to write to Jimmy. 
> 
> Thomas found himself wishing a car might hit him while he was walking on the road just to have an excuse to lay in bed for a few months… just until he forgot his pain and Jimmy stopped writing to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, here we go. The last barrel roll (of it's kind) Come next chapter... you're either going to be dancing on your chairs or rolling in your graves. Without further ado, let's watch Thomas sink into the "depths of despair" as Anne of Green Gables might say. 
> 
> Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers and readers- I truly hope you enjoy this!

When Thomas had first been thrown out of his father’s house, he’d wandered the streets of Manchester (and eventually London) for three weeks. It had been winter, bitterly cold, and Thomas had been without a coat. He’d found meagre comfort in the public fires and sparse meals of the workhouse- jobs under the grind of a factory were easy to come by but hard to keep at when you were starving and without a proper shirt. Thomas’ saving grace had come in the form of an underpass by a filthy river where he’d had been hiding for the evening. Shame had overcome him to the point of tears; he’d stolen his meal for the night and had felt utterly awful at the prospect of someone else going hungry so that he would not starve. He’d been exhausted, frightfully cold, and ready to chuck himself into the icy dredges of the Thames if it meant that he didn’t have to steal again in order to eat. In that moment he’d longed for a bed, for a pillow, for anything soft and warm- he’d thought he’d dreamed it up when he’d felt a coat being laid upon his shoulders. But the wool beneath his stiff fingers had been incredibly real, and Thomas had looked up to see the face of an old, stern gentleman who seemed more affronted by the fact that Thomas was crying than the fact that Thomas was homeless. 

_“What are you doing, crying underneath this bridge without a coat?” the man had asked, fixing his own coat a little better upon Thomas’ shoulders. “Don’t you know it’s winter, boy?”_

But Thomas had known nothing besides hunger and emptiness, nothing apart from the keen sting of rejection and the terror of not knowing where his next meal was coming from. 

_“I’m homeless.” Thomas had wept, “I have no where to go.”_

_“Do you work?” the gentleman had asked._

Thomas would have stood on his head if it meant he’d get another meal. 

And so Thomas had been taken by the gentleman across the busy streets of London post Boxing Day to find himself at the rear area of a large and grand house. At first, he’d thought the man lived inside, and had been star crossed at the idea of stepping into such a fanciful world. Then, the man had taken him in and Thomas had realized he wasn’t a man of the upper class at all but a servant- a Butler in fact- and he needed a hall boy that was “good looking” enough to stand in as a footman from time to time and _“For heaven’s sake would you stop sniveling?”_

He’d taken the job without hesitation, and had been promptly drug by the ears to a washroom for a bath and a change of dress. By the end of the day, Thomas had been in a bed (small but soft) and nursing a swollen belly full of roast and steamed cabbage. 

In short, Thomas owed not only his career but his very life to the kindness of Mr. Edgar Burland. The butler who’d trained him in the art of being a servant… and the man who’d mentored him on the concept of “Nobility Under the Knife”. 

“When handling crystal, always wear gloves and take care to dilute your ammonia with lemon and water.” Mr. Burland had said; Thomas had first learned to polish crystal wear by his expertise, and had grown so attached to the concept of buffering dirty dishes clean that Mr. Burland had soon let him take on silver. 

Now in the crystal pantry of Downton Abbey, Thomas continued to use the method of ammonia and lemon Mr. Burland had instructed him under, and wondered at Andy Parker. 

He’d wanted a job, had been damn eager for the work, and had served adequately well at dinner. He’d lacked Jimmy’s flair (but then again everyone lacked Jimmy’s flair) and had had a terrible indiscretion of drinking buddies… but Thomas wouldn’t hold that against him. If Edgar Burland had been able to see Thomas’ potential when he had been half-dead from frostbite and emaciated… Thomas Barrow could most certainly see the potential in Andy Parker. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ 

Thomas looked about with dull interest as Carson entered the crystal pantry to beckon him with a flared hand, “Andrew Parker has arrived-“ 

“Ah!” Thomas was hardly excited for Carson’s sake; he was eager to see Andy again and get him started on the road to footman. Setting down a crystal punch bowl and pulling off his faded white gloves, Thomas quickly smoothed back his hair and exited the crystal pantry to head for Mr. Carson’s office. The door was already wide open to reveal Andy Parker standing just inside, squashing a gray newscap nervously between his large hands. He still had that jittery quality about him- the fear of being the new worker was a paranoia Thomas could appreciate and he offered Andy a small if not warm smile. Andy returned it at once, beaming as Thomas entered the room to close the door of Mr. Carson’s office behind him. Mr. Carson himself took his seat behind his desk and fixed Andy with his best glare. To a newcomer, such a look of ominous irritation could be numbing. To an old hand like Thomas, Carson’s stern countenance was incredibly annoying and utterly unhelpful. 

“Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow-“ Andy stuttered, thanking them both in turn, “Thank you so much for this opportunity-“ 

“Your work while in London was exemplary but your social habits need curbing, Mr. Parker.” Carson warned with just the tiniest touch of malice. 

“M-Mr. Carson I can explain-“ Andy gestured feebly in the air, newscap still in hand. But as far as Thomas was concerned, there was nothing to explain. Denker was a lush and a fiend, Andy was wet behind the ears; she’d targeted him. 

Just as O’Brien had, frankly, targeted Thomas. 

“It is not Andy’s fault that Ms. Denker is a lush and a fiend.” Thomas reminded Carson, who flashed him an accusatory look after usurping his authority in front of a newcomer. Thomas was hardly ruffled, “He was new to the house, and-“ 

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow, that will be all.” Mr. Carson snapped, effectively shutting down Thomas’ counter argument. 

_Prick._

Mr. Carson gestured between Andy and Thomas, fixing Andy with a shrewd glare, “You can direct your appreciation to Mr. Barrow for your position. It was he who put you forth for the interview.” 

At this, Andy turned to Thomas beaming. Thomas gave him another tiny smile. 

“Likewise it will be he who shall direct you around the house and explain how we do things here at Downton. As footman, you shall report directly to him. He in turn repots directly to me. Is that clear?” Mr. Carson asked, though the look on his face made it obvious that any negation might result in the termination of the newly given job. Andy nodded his head rapidly, eyes wide with knowing. 

“Yes Mr. Carson.” Andy assured him at once. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Carson ordered; Thomas kept a servant’s blank to hide his scowl, “if you will get Andrew sorted with a livery and show him around the house.” 

“Actually I prefer An-“ Andy began, but Thomas shot him a look that shut him up at once. 

Jimmy had gotten a whirling shit storm for going against “James”. Thomas would not let Andy make the same mistake. Andy swallowed the rest of the sentence, eyes locked on Thomas’ glare as he declared, “Thank you, Mr. Barrow” and said no more. 

_You’re welcome, Andy._ Thomas thought bitterly as he turned back to face Mr. Carson. 

“He will start tonight with dinner.” Carson warned Thomas, who nodded, “See that he is prepared.” 

“Right away Mr. Carson.” Thomas said. He turned on his heel to exit, gesturing for Andy to follow. Andy practically fled from the office, eager to get away from Carson and his traumatizing glare. As soon as Thomas had shut the door, Andy let out a breath and wiped at his forehead with his crumpled newscap. 

“Blimey.” Andy mumbled; he shot Thomas the shyest smile, “Thank you so much, Mr. Barrow.” 

“Come with me.” Thomas gestured heading for the servant’s hall. Andy followed with a prompt gait. “Never ever insist on being called Andy to Mr. Carson’s face again; the others won’t mind but he’ll chop your head off for it.” Thomas shot Andy a wry grin over his shoulder. “In front of Carson and Mrs. Hughes, you’ll have to call me Mr. Barrow. But between you and me, you can always call me Thomas.” 

Andy seemed quite relieved by that. His smile grew more relaxed. 

Thomas turned back around and lead the way into the servant’s hall which was only occupied by the hall boys who were hassling with Mrs. Patmore’s freshly delivered groceries. Jars of jam and spices littered the table, brown wrapping paper scattering the floor as the hall boys unloaded one box only to crack into another. 

“This is the servant’s hall” Thomas gestured about, “Through that door is the kitchen” He pointed to the left, “That door leads to the back yard where you obviously entered,” Thomas pointed back down 

the hallway from whence they’d come, “Outer doors are to be kept constantly fastened, and the bells are only to be answered by a member of the upper ten. Likewise you’re expected to be punctual to meals. You can’t take any article of cutlery or food out of the servant’s hall-“ but at this Thomas had to give Andy a sly look of obvious knowing as he leaned in and said, “You can do it if you’re smart about it.” 

Andy’s face flickered, just for a moment, an odd expression passing across his eyes as Thomas leaned in. At once, Thomas straightened back up. 

“No gambling, swearing, you know the rest.” Thomas continued on with the wave of a hand, “Just keep your nose clean. Yeah?” Andy nodded, “Right then, follow me.” 

Off they went around the house, first to Mrs. Hughes sitting room for a quick glance, then up the stairs to the attics where they passed Moseley ( _“Good to see you again, Andy! Just getting settled in?”_ ), before depositing Andy’s suitcase in his new room and heading back downstairs for his livery. Mrs. Hughes was directing a room full of maids in washing massive tablecloths for the upstair’s Christmas dinner ( _“Andrew, how good to see you again.”_ ); she instructed two housemaids named Alice and Gill to help Andy into Alfred’s old uniform. It was the only one that would fit him. Frankly he was as lanky as a bean pole. Queerly enough Andy had likewise taken over Alfred’s old room so that only Jimmy’s old room was left open on the hallway. 

Thomas didn’t know how he felt about this. 

Dinner was a relative success, done and dusted without any major incident. Lord Grantham was pleased to have two footmen again; Moseley looked ready to sing for sheer relief. To Thomas, it all felt ugly and heavy- forced and incredibly rude in light of what he’d suffered the past week. Where Andy went, Thomas imagined Jimmy’s shadow. If Jimmy had been reinstated in the house, he wouldn’t have needed a walk around, or an introduction to the upper ten. Instead, they would have deposited his suitcase in his room to spend the rest of the afternoon getting back into the swing of things… and would have smoked together outside afterwards. 

As it was, Thomas smoked alone in the courtyard, leaning against the lone picnic table and looking up at the sky. It was starless, overcast with clouds. A light snow drifted down through the air, making him look like he had a rather bad case of dandruff as it collected on his shoulders. His hands and face were numb but that was just as it should be. Thomas couldn’t feel anything in his heart anymore. Why suffer the sting anywhere else? 

He exhaled a huge plum of smoke, watching it rise in odd contrast against the falling snow; he heard the back door open and looked around. 

There was Andy in the doorway, gawping and huge with an uneasy look in his eye. He seemed quite nervous, which Thomas could understand. It was a big step, moving from hall boy to footman… but Andy needn’t fear. Thomas would make sure his workload was light for at least a week or so- after New Years he’d start delegating Andy with decidedly more tricky tasks. 

Thomas offered Andy a small smile. Andy did not return it. 

“They said I’d find out out here. May I join you?” Andy asked, sounding quite unsure if he even wanted to step out into the snow. 

“Who said you’d find me out here?” Thomas asked, warily. He didn’t like the idea of others telling tales on him. 

“Peter and Nathaniel.” Andy said, and Thomas instantly felt at ease. Of Downton’s four hall boys, Peter and Nathaniel were decidedly the easiest to deal with. Peter was mild mannered if not utterly shy. He stayed out of Thomas’ way for the most part, and Thomas liked that. Nathaniel on the other hand was always asking him questions, always at his elbow. At first, it had been downright annoying (Carson had looked relieved to shove Nathaniel off onto Thomas when he’d become under butler), but now Thomas found Nathaniel rather endearing. 

He was smart. He wanted to learn. Thomas could see the potential in him. 

“They’re alright.” Andy said, in answer to Thomas’ unspoken question. Thomas nodded, smiling as he took another drag off his diminishing cigarette. “I’m not too fond of Gregory though.” 

Thomas’ smile darkened. Gregory was a different story.  
Gregory had been at Downton during “the incident”. He’d heard enough to put two and two together… and had decided to treat Thomas like garbage for a year until Mrs. Hughes had caught wind of it and laid her foot down. 

“He’s interesting.” Thomas sneered, though the actual term to use would be _‘an arrogant little berk’._

Andy seemed to be of the same mindset. 

“Gregory said something-“ Andy flustered, his cheeks growing rather hot as he looked from Thomas to the ground, and then back up again, “I uh- I wanted to see if it was true.” 

“By all means.” Thomas said. Gregory’s mouth was notorious. God only knows what he’d said.. and on Andy’s first day too. 

“… How did you become under butler?” 

Thomas paused, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips as he took a unnecessarily slow drag. He breathed out a plum of smoke. 

“What did Gregory say?” Thomas growled. He had a feeling he already knew but he wouldn’t jump to conclusions until Andy had told him the rest. 

Thomas had had this conversation before. The nervous break of the ice where the truth came out. Only this time, Thomas had an alibi. 

 

An alibi he hated to use, but an alibi none the less. 

“… He called you a bum boy.” Andy finally said, embarrassed; he quickly looked away. Thomas coughed out a lung full of smoke, suddenly envisioning his six murder steps on a dangerously forward hall boy. The last time Thomas had been called a bum boy had been by a pair of men drinking in the shade of an overpass. He’d been walking by, with a package for Downton that he’d picked up from the grocers. Thomas hadn’t risen to the bait, hadn’t wanted to make himself late… but god how he wished he’d not been in a hurry. 

He didn’t take kindly to comments like that. 

“Well I’m not.” Thomas spat, taking his cigarette and flicking it far out across the snowy courtyard so that it hissed and died in a small clump of dirty snow near the back door, “I’m courting Daisy.” 

“What?” Andy’s face broke into an expression of despair; he looked truly put out as he slumped bitterly upon the courtyard table. Thomas raised an eyebrow but he wasn’t left in confusion for long as Andy grumbled and crossed his bulging arms over his chest to say, “I uh… Sorry I just- I like Daisy. A lot. I was hoping I could court her. Now I have to find a way to get rid of you!” But he offered Thomas a cheery laugh all the same. 

Here was the warm camaraderie that Thomas had never known. The simple ease of two men sitting together talking- an ease he’d rarely found in another save for Jimmy (and now John). Whenever men had found out his preference, the result had always been the same. They either wanted to fight him, or to fuck him. There was no in between. If they were of his same preference, they’d eye Thomas with newfound intrigue and casually suggest a romp between the sheets. Their breed was a rare sort, you had to take every opportunity that came your way. Thomas could appreciate the longing for pleasure- nights at the Abbey could be cold and unforgiving. On the other hand if they weren’t Thomas’ sort, they’d eye him with such loathing and disgust that Thomas would immediately start counting sordid weapons in the room and ways he could make a hasty escape. Thomas had been certain that, when his secret was revealed throughout the abbey, he was going to be chased from the place with pitchforks and torches. To be fair, Alfred had called the police and Carson had never looked at him the same way again… but he’d been utterly shocked at how calm John had been about it all. In a way, before their newfound friendship, Thomas had been scared of John for that calm. He was certain the man could kill- who was to say he wouldn’t kill again? That he wouldn’t kill Thomas? 

Now Thomas realized John simply hadn’t given a damn. He was a rare breed of man in their age who was comfortable in his masculinity. Cream and sugar in his coffee did not rattle him. Having a homosexual sit on his sofa did not worry him. John loved Anna and no one else. It was as simple as that. 

Thomas took out another cigarette, lighting it with a rather violent flick of his lighter. Andy watched him, suddenly appearing quite nervous despite how Thomas had denied the claim. Thomas took a bitter drag from his cigarette, wondering what Andy might have said or done if he’d known Thomas was a homosexual. He probably wouldn’t have laughed. 

“I’m hard to shake, Andy.” Thomas warned, and there was slight menace in his voice though he hadn’t meant for it to be there. Andy suddenly looked quite nervous. Thomas couldn’t blame him. 

“They said that you snuck into a footman’s room, a guy named Jimmy, and you kissed him in his sleep.” Andy said, and there was a biting nervous edge to his voice as he gave a tittering laugh. Thomas rolled his eyes, rubbing his brow despite how his cigarette was pinched between his pointer and index finger. 

He was going to fucking kill Gregory. They’d find a new hall boy easily. 

“Thank you for telling me that.” Thomas muttered darkly. “Tomorrow I’ll put Gregory’s face through a wall.” _Or two._ “He should know better than to tell tales on me.” 

Andy just laughed. Thomas exhaled another plum of smoke. 

“They said Jimmy was your best friend, was he- or was that a lie too?” 

Thomas blinked. 

A million images were dancing in front of his eyes, all encompassed within the span of Jimmy’s baby blue eyes and the warmth of his far-off touch. Cigarettes, piano tunes, card games, stolen whiskey and brushes of fingers as lighters clicked and flames sparked in the dark. 

“Yes. He was.” Thomas finally said, and his tone was quite clipped as he took another drag of his cigarette. Andy watched him, careful. He’d have been a fool not too feel the tension. 

“They said you were really sad when he left. Was that true?” Andy asked. Thomas looked over; Andy quickly looked away. 

_What are you so god damn nervous for?_ Thomas wanted to snap. 

“… I didn’t kiss him in his sleep, Andy.” Thomas lied, “I’m not that kind of man.” 

Andy gave him a faded smile. 

“You look tense is all.” Andy mumbled, brow crinkling. “Do you not like to talk about him?” 

“No.” Thomas said shortly. He dropped his second cigarette and squashed it hard under his foot, “No, I don’t.” 

Andy nodded. 

 

“I promise not to mention it again, Uncle Thomas.” Andy said, and his lips twitched upward at the end with just the hints of a snickering smile. Thomas coughed on a final plum of smoke, a stab of humiliation and embarrassment jerking deep within him as he remembered his squiffy insistence to Andy. 

Once again, an ugly emotion reared up within his chest- the flashes of faces he’d never see again… faces he’d never seen _period._ Titles, roles, loves that should have been his. If only- if only… 

“Please do not call me that.” Thomas snapped, “I was squiffy when I insisted on it.” 

Andy just laughed and laughed. 

~*~

Two days before Christmas, Thomas received another letter. 

His reply to Jimmy’s first letter had been an odd thing. Part of him had wanted to gush all his woes, part of him had wanted to keep it detached, and so Thomas’ end result had been a miserable and short thing praising Jimmy’s talents but revealing nothing about his sickness or his affair with Daisy Mason. He’d felt almost guilty when he’d put it in the post the next day, and had wondered if Jimmy had found him cold or rude when he’d finally read it. The idea of being rude to Jimmy was so foreign to Thomas that it almost made him sick to consider. 

But what could he do? At this point he was pegged. He could never be with Jimmy, Jimmy could never return… At this point it was torture just to write to Jimmy. 

Thomas found himself wishing a car might hit him while he was walking on the road just to have an excuse to lay in bed for a few months… just until he forgot his pain and Jimmy stopped writing to him. 

It was breakfast time, with a day of complex work before them as they prepared for Christmas eve; Thomas found himself reading the paper as he drank a cup of black coffee and flicked idly through the news. John was across the table from him, knee deep in conversation with Anna on the state of their London house and what they ought to do to keep it up. Phyllis sat on Thomas’ right, Mrs. Hughes on his left, and both of them tried to engage him in conversation before giving up as Thomas replied with small ‘mmm’s, and nothing more. 

_That’s right,_ Thomas thought smugly as he was left alone, _Can’t talk to a brick wall._

It seemed, however, that brick walls could still receive post. Thomas was suddenly interrupted from his paper reverie as Andy came into the hall bearing a host of parcels and letters which he passed out to the table at random. Moseley was in a cheery mood, no longer having to abandon his breakfast just to get the mail, and took his letter with a chipper, “Thank you Andy!” 

Thomas was unsurprised when two bundled packages were sat before him, given that he’d ordered Mrs. Hughes a brooch and Daisy a hair-comb through a magazine, but when a letter was laid atop it Thomas cast it a nervous eye. 

It was in brown paper. He pursed his lips. 

“Another letter?” 

Thomas flicked an eye up to catch John watching him from across the table. Thomas let his paper go limp in his hands, scowling a little at John (though it lacked his usual gusto) as he laid his paper in his lap. 

“Letters are meant to be opened.” John said after a moment when Thomas did not make to take the letter nor open it. 

“The world is full of bizarre occurrences, it seems.” Thomas griped, accepting a refill of coffee from Mrs. Hughes. 

She knew his temper when he’d only had one cup; she was probably taking into account that John’s leg might be aching with the cold. Their arguments were like clockwork to the downstairs staff. 

“Is it from Jimmy?” 

Thomas huffed, setting down his second cup of coffee before he’d even taken a sip. 

“Your best friend?” Andy asked as he retook his seat. Thomas sent him a scathing look that was rather undeserved. 

“Why does everyone call him my best friend?” Thomas demanded angrily to the table at large, “You never even knew him-!” he added to Andy who looked sheepishly at his plate and quickly tucked into his eggs before they went cold. 

“Because he is your best friend.” John said, challenging him directly. The table began to squirm. 

No one knew it, no one needed to know it, but Thomas had spent most nights for the past week at John and Anna’s cottage. After the horrific reveal between Lord Grantham and Carson, John had seemed determined to talk Thomas through his depression. Thomas was still exhausted, still broken, but he was not alone. There was a permanent dent in John’s couch from where Thomas had sat and wept into his hands. 

Where before Thomas would have started an argument with John over his accusation, now he only stared. 

He looked down at the letter; it was small but thick.  
It seemed Jimmy had written quite a lot this time. 

“You ought to read it, it’ll do you good-“ John began to say.  
Thomas stood up from the table and left without another word; he forgot his letter and parcels upon the table in his dire intent to get away. 

“I’m going to work.” Thomas snapped over his shoulder, even as Carson opened his mouth to demand to know where he was going, “I have better things to do than to sit here all day arguing with you numpty brains.” 

A bit of Christmas-grump for the holiday season. A sort of, universal present to the downstair’s staff at large from Thomas. 

_Happy holidays,_ he wanted to bite out. 

The biggest inventory intake during the holidays was in the kitchens, and so Thomas found himself sequestered in the pantry for most of the day as he took stock of new shipments from yesterday and checked the numbers with Christmas seasons past. There was no way to deny that Downton had gotten smaller- the war had changed everything- but it was still a massive haul and his pen kept going out. He had to go into Carson’s office three different times to change out and find a better pen to write with. One could imagine a pencil would work just as well but if Thomas even dared insist it to Carson he’d have his head bitten off. 

_“Inventory with a pencil?! Are you mad?! What’s next, women having the vote?!”_

_Yes._ Thomas thought viciously, _We’ll given women the vote and then we’ll put a law into parliament to have you beheaded. So put that in your pipe and smoke it._

A knock on the pantry door caused Thomas to look up; he was unsurprised to find Daisy on the other side, smiling and bearing both his parcels and letter. 

“You forgot your post.” Daisy said, “You were so determined to get away from Mr. Bates.” She gave him a cheeky smile, closing the door behind her. “Did you get your pen to behave?” She asked as she approached and noted his checkered inventory clipboard. 

“Finally.” Thomas grumbled, though he had a feeling his new pen would be going out soon if he didn’t watch it. He set his clipboard and pen aside on a shelf full of jam jars and took his parcels from Daisy. Thomas carefully tucked Jimmy’s letter into his vest with a small stab of resentment. 

If only he could run forever. The world might be a quieter place. 

To avoid Daisy’s unspoken question of ‘ _Are you alright_ ’, Thomas instead focused on the two parcels in hand. Daisy didn’t know it, but one of them held her Christmas present. He smiled coyly, arching a fine eyebrow to offer the parcel that (he suspected) must hold her hair come. It was a flatter, longer box, and didn’t rattle near as much as the other parcel. Thomas had shaken enough Christmas presents as a boy to know which one held a brooch and which one held a hair comb. 

He could hear his mother even now: _“Thomas Nathaniel Barrow you put down that present this instant or I’ll tell your father you’ve been at the tree again and we’ll see how you like it!”_

“Did you look at this?” Thomas asked, his tone smug as Daisy shook her head avidly. 

“No. Why?” Daisy asked. Thomas just gave her a smirk and slipped her present into his pocket along with Mrs. Hughes’ brooch. 

“Oh no reason.” Thomas said airily as he picked back up his clipboard and pen. 

“Is that me present?” Daisy asked, sounding quite delighted by the prospect as she leaned in even closer began to inch her fingers down his arm. Either she was going for his pocket, or for something else (god forbid) and Thomas quickly took a step back to keep her at bay.  
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Thomas said, and without another word he pulled his finished inventory page loose from his clipboard to offer it to Daisy. “Be a lamb and give this to Mrs. Patmore for me. I’ve got to get this finished before afternoon tea if I’m to have the crystal ready for tomorrow night.” 

Daisy was enchanted by him, staring up at him as if he were made of stars. She ran a finger up and down his arm in what was surely meant to be a soothing fashion though Thomas took no comfort from it. Daisy would never know, could never know, that her touches were as bare and cold to Thomas as a bitter winter wind. Despite what she might think, he gained no warmth from her. No love. At most, he enjoyed her in a brotherly fashion… and worst he looked at her as a ball and chain that was dragging him slowly down into the depths of the ocean. 

With every inch she drug him, Thomas was taken closer and closer to his coffin. She’d be the nails that locked him in, and the pillow they laid his corpse on all the same. She was both medicine and poison. 

“Such a hard worker.” She murmured softly in his ear. Thomas just looked to his clipboard, his heart growing heavy as Daisy wrapped an arm around his waist and sighed into his arm. 

“We do what we have to.” Thomas said, and though Daisy did not know it there was an ugly hidden meaning to his words. 

Yes, they all did what they had to. Thomas certainly hadn’t swallowed half a bottle of opium for his own health. 

Or maybe he had. God this whole thing was tricky. 

Thomas jumped at the sudden feeling of warm, wet lips upon his cheek, and stiffened as Daisy drew back a little only to kiss him again nearer his ear. 

“… I can’t wait to give you my present.” Daisy whispered in his ear. 

Thomas shuddered, suppressing the urge to be sick with great effort. 

 

The morning of Christmas eve came bright and clear, with a good three feet of snow on the ground that was yet to be muddied by the tires of visiting farmers. There was a distinct feeling of detached merriment in the air for Thomas, who despite having reason to celebrate was in a particularly somber mood. Perhaps it was because when Thomas had been small, surely no older than five or six (for this had been before Daniel was born), he’d delighted in Christmas. 

He could remember waking on Christmas morning to the feeling of Margret bouncing about their shared bed, squealing with delight as she begged Thomas to rouse and dashed from bed. Thomas had been a grouchy riser where Margret had been bright eyed and bushy tailed- he’d always stayed in bed just a little longer so that the next time his bed moved it was not his sister but his mother who’d come to collect him in her dressing gown. He could remember smiling sleepily into her shoulder as she pulled him up from bed to take him into her lap. 

_“Merry Christmas Cricket”_ she’d say, and when he opened his eyes the very first thing he’d see would be his mother smiling down at him… sun in her ebony hair and her brown eyes twinkling. 

She’d carry Thomas from his bedroom into the kitchen where his father would be waiting at the table, reading his paper and drinking his coffee. Margret would be on his knee, eating an orange (a Christmas treat) and savoring each slice as she sucked the juices from her fingers. Thomas would be perched upon the kitchen counter, bare feet swinging over the side as his mother gave him an orange to eat and put on her dress. 

She’d always worn a blue dress at Christmas, a gift from their father when they’d still been courting she said. 

Thomas could remember getting a turn on his father’s knee, as soon as Margret got off to sit in her own chair. Could remember how his father had rubbed his hair and allowed him to rest against his chest as he read the paper and finished his coffee. Once, Thomas had asked to for a sip out of curiosity, and had made his father laugh when he’d grimaced at the bitter, scalding taste. 

_“Eugh!”_ Thomas had whined even as his father threw his head back and laughed, _“Da, it’s awful!”_

_“Coffee is not for little boys.”_ His father had agreed, _“Coffee is for men.”_

Now at the age of twenty nine, Thomas slowly sipped on his cup of coffee and read the paper while everyone around him opened their gifts and wore paper hats. Mr. Carson was at the head of the table with Mrs. Hughes, clearly having already indulged in sherry with rosy cheeks and dewy eyes. The Christmas spread before them was a far sight bigger than Thomas had ever seen in his youth, with turkey and a whole host of dishes that wouldn’t have been available to a middle class family. The hall boys and maids were chattering and wearing paper hats, swapping orange slices and rowdily telling Christmas stories while at the other end of the table the adults kept time to themselves, their conversation significantly more subdued.

Thomas found himself staring at a plate of sliced oranges, watching them disappear  
as hall boys and maids took them up with gleeful expressions. 

He bowed his head, eyes slipping back to his paper though he couldn’t find the strength to read it. 

He didn’t want to be here. 

Andy was settling in well, chatting up Daisy and flirting with Mrs. Patmore for an extra slice of pudding (the boy had a brain to be sure) while making sure to snag an orange slice before they disappeared. Thomas refused to take one even when Anna attempted to offer. He hadn’t eaten an orange on Christmas since he’d been kicked out of his father’s house. 

In a way, it felt sacrilegious, to eat an orange without it being offered by his sister or mother. 

Daisy had spent the major part of the morning passing out breakfast. She’d put the largest ginger biscuit Thomas had ever seen on his plate (it seemed to have been baked especially for him and even had icing on the top) and had offered him the sweetest _‘Merry Christmas’_ that he’d heard in years. Thomas had managed to sneak Mrs. Hughes brooch into a tidy pile by her plate, but was careful to leave Daisy’s comb in his pocket. There were no present’s waiting by his tray, which hardly surprised him. As far as he was concerned, it just left more room for him to pile on mince pies and stuffing. 

“Hello.” 

Thomas looked up from his paper, unsurprised to find Daisy standing next to his chair with her hands behind her back and a coy sweet smile playing upon her face. She’d done up her hair which Thomas was glad to see, and he was almost certain he could smell perfume on her neck. If Mrs. Patmore caught wind of it, she’d do her nut. Thomas set his paper down before folding it neatly to pass it over to Moseley who’d looked keen to read it for a while now. He folded his hands calmly across his stomach and gave her his most pleasant of smiles. 

“Hello there. Is it that time, then?” Thomas asked, arching an eyebrow as Daisy brought her hands out from behind her back to reveal a small, slim present. It looked just big enough to hold letter opener, or something of the like. It was garnished with a red ribbon, and Daisy was practically bouncing in her shoes as she pushed it for Thomas to take. 

“Yes it is.” Daisy said giddily as Thomas accepted it. He held it with gentle hands, careful not to disturb the red ribbon as he set it precariously on the edge of the table to reach into his pocket and pull out her hair comb. He offered it over to her, not failing to note how her brown eyes lit up like he’d handed her a diamond necklace instead of a plainly wrapped package with a pathetic twine bow. 

“Go on then,” Thomas offered with a wave of the hand, a smile starting to crawl onto his face despite how somber he felt. In a way, it was good for him. To see Daisy so keenly delighted over a gift he’d picked out for her. It was hardly an exciting thing, just a tortoise shell comb with six prongs and a knotted top garnished with an iron fastening in the middle. Lady Mary probably had a comb made of pearl and silver. Yet as Daisy took away the wrapping paper and opening the lid to see the comb inside, her sucked in a breath of sheer joy and held the comb aloft with pride. Thomas just shrugged as Daisy beamed at him. She looked ready to float away to the moon; he might have to tie a string round her ankle to keep from hitting the ceiling. 

“Thomas, this is so beautiful!” Daisy gushed, pressing the comb to her chest. Thomas flushed, rather embarrassed at the attention Daisy was beginning to draw as John craned his large neck to see what Daisy had received and Mrs. Hughes looked around in her seat. “No one’s ever gotten me anything like this before-“ 

“Well your hair is far too lovely to be without a comb, I keep telling you that-“ Thomas shrugged again, his voice suddenly turning into a mumble as he tried to keep from being overheard. 

But it hardly mattered if he’d talked in a normal voice or not, for at that moment without warning, Daisy flung aside all pretenses aside and launched herself at his lips. They collided, and she kissed him with such joyous force that Thomas flailed backward like an unhinged windmill to tip his chair over and crash in an ungodly heap in the floor. The air was suddenly rent with the sound of hall boys laughing hysterically and several members of the upper ten calling out “Are you okay?” 

Andy had been coming around the table, eager to get another slice of orange, but sidetracked his quest to help Thomas back to his feet as he spluttered and flushed a hot pink at embarrassment. His heart pounded in his chest as he kept his eyes locked to the floor, terrified what he’d find if he looked up at Carson. Andy helped him to right his chair, and Thomas fell back into it with a flush as Daisy at once straightened his jacket upon his shoulders in an apologetic manner. 

“I’m so sorry!” Daisy laughed, though she hardly sounded sorry at all, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you fall out of your chair!” 

“Daisy!” Mrs. Hughes admonished, quite affronted, but she was cut off mid-reprimand as Mr. Carson boomed in a cheery voice. 

“Come now, Mrs. Hughes, it’s Christmas!” Mr. Carson chortled, “Let lovers be!” 

Thomas glanced around, gaping at Carson in horrified astonishment as John choked on his coffee and Phyllis paused mid-bite of orange in sheer disbelief of what she’d heard. Thomas looked at them both, wondering where all the sense had fled to. He’d never been kissed so openly, without fear for the consequences. It was terrifying to process, and Thomas’ hands trembled in his lap as he took several staggering breathes. 

Thomas decided on the spot that the only reason he wasn’t receiving his packing papers on the spot was because Carson was too tipsy to fully process what had just happened. 

_I’m going to die in this chair, I’ve decided._ Thomas said, suddenly hating Christmas and everything to do with it. God what would he give for the ability to flee to his room! 

“I see you’ve got a present or two to open!” Mr. Carson added, ribbing Mrs. Hughes who was giving him a tired look of _‘You’ve had far too much sherry’._

Why had Carson been drinking? It was unusual for him, even with the holiday air about. Was he nervous about something? 

“I do, yes.” Mrs. Hughes assuaged him before turning to Daisy and adding, “But try to control yourself Daisy, you’re a lady not a girl and this is far from a dance hall.” 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hughes but I just couldn’t contain myself. Isn’t my hair comb lovely?” Daisy asked, turning her neck so that everyone could see. John looked vaguely impressed, nodding from Thomas to the comb as if to say _‘Job well done, mate.’_. Andy looked green with envy as he eyed the way Daisy doted on Thomas. 

“Come now, open another one!” Mr. Carson urged. Mrs. Hughes was starting to smile again, taken up in his charms as she slowly drew her eyes away from Daisy to unknowingly pick up Thomas’ present. Thomas noticed her selection and immediately looked away as the sound of tearing brown paper filled the air and Daisy fiddled with her hands on his shoulders. She might have been trying to massage him for the way she squeezed him. 

“Who is this from?” Mrs. Hughes asked, her voice taking on a sweet tinge of airy delight as she looked about the table. Mrs. Patmore had come in bearing another tray of minced pies. 

“Mrs. Patmore did you wrap this for someone?” Mrs. Hughes asked, offering up Thomas unveiled present: a broach featuring the ironed fashioned shape of a pansy. Its tips were painted purple and white. 

“I didn’t, no.” Mrs. Patmore said, setting down the tray in the middle of the table so that it was almost immediately covered in hall boys and maids. Daisy managed to snatch two and set one down on Thomas’ plate. He ate it at once, eager for something to do as he tried to will his heart to stop pounding. 

Mrs. Hughes looked down the table, her eyes ghosting over Thomas’ face. He immediately looked down, turning his face away so that she could not see the blush beginning to creep up his cheeks. 

For a moment there was just silence from Mrs. Hughes as she fastened her new broach to her throat and felt it lovingly with wrinkled fingers. 

“What a fine gift.” Mr. Carson boasted, clearly in need of a cup of coffee to ease the sherry, “Who gave it to you?” 

“Should I wonder?” Mrs. Hughes asked airily, and Thomas glanced up to see her smiling at him knowingly. He blushed again, looking down to shove more of his mince pie into his mouth. 

“Thank you Thomas. It’s lovely.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“What’r’you lookin’ at me for?” Thomas grumbled around a mouth full of mince pie as John smirked at him and Mr. Carson beamed (which was rather out of character even when drunk), “I didn’t sent it to you.”

John just snorted at this, rising up from his chair to fetch Anna another mince pie at her beckoning before the hall boys ate them all. Mrs. Hughes didn’t bother with his lie, instead using a miniature mirror on her key ring to see it fastened at her neck. She was quite pleased with it, her purple dress suddenly accentuated by its color.

“You have quite a talent for pick out women’s accessories.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Yeah, I wonder why that is.” Gregory sneered from down the table, giving his fellow hall boys an evil eye as if tempting anyone to debate him on the subject. It just so happened that John was standing right behind him, reaching for a mince pie, and so he was in perfect range to cuff Gregory about the ears with a well aimed smack of the hand. 

“Don’t spoil the Christmas spirit, Gregory.” John warned as he took a mince pie and hobbled back to his seat, “Or do you forget Mr. Barrow is in charge of your schedule.” 

Thomas gave Gregory a withering glare, suddenly coupled in his silent attack by Daisy (who fumed) and Mrs. Hughes (who was none too pleased). Gregory quickly fell silent, rubbing his stinging ear as he hurriedly bit into his mince pie. 

“Aren’t you going to open Daisy’s gift?” Mrs. Hughes asked, gesturing to the as-of-yet unopened box sitting by Thomas’ plate. Thomas flushed, looking down again as Daisy bounced a little upon her heels and gave him an expectant smile. 

“I don’t…” Thomas’ voice just trailed away, “Want t’open it in public.” 

With a small sigh of resentment, Thomas reached forward to pluck up his gift and quietly unwrap it. Despite the atmosphere of jovial conversation and festive chatter, the table suddenly felt awkwardly quiet as Thomas pulled the red ribbon free and worked open the brown paper. It fell away to reveal a slim white box, which Thomas opened with shaking hands to reveal-

“Oh-!” He stuttered, instantly relieved by the innocent ballpoint pen he found sitting in paper lining. It was actually quite nice, and frankly Thomas had needed a new pen for ages so he was certainly pleased to receive it. It was lined in dark green, and oddly enough matched his under butler vest. He flushed, coughing as he struggled with what to say. He’d never been more embarrassed in his life. He was a private man, he didn’t care for these public displays.

“Th-uh..” Thomas blushed horribly as Daisy tittered, “Thank you Daisy. I really needed this; this is… thank you.” 

“You use that old one so much.” Daisy agreed, rubbing his shoulders tenderly, “It’s about to wear to ribbon. You need your own pen.” 

“A charming gift, Daisy.” Carson boasted from his seat, as if Daisy had gotten him the pen instead of Thomas, “What a joyous Christmas season! I can’t imagine a happier time- aren’t you happy Thomas?” Carson added, offering Thomas such a sincere smile that Thomas was too stunned to scowl, “Don’t you feel happier? I knew you would. I knew I was making the right decision.” 

Thomas looked at John across the table, his expression slack with utter disgust. He found John looking much the same way, pursing his already thin lips as Anna rubbed his arm sympathetically and whispered something in his ear. 

“I think Mr. Carson’s drunk.” Daisy whispered softly in his ear, making him jump as he suddenly realized how close they were. He turned his head ever so slightly to the right to whisper back. 

“I think you’re right.” 

“I hope you don’t mind that I kissed you.” Daisy whispered, her hot breath tickling the shell of his ear, “It’s just that you looked so handsome, and I so cherished my gift. I want you to know how loved you are Thomas. You’re loved in this house- I told you a while ago I’d find a way to show you?” 

Thomas looked up at Daisy and found her smiling down at him with such adoration and love that it made him feel utterly lost in a sea of confusion and fear. He didn’t know what to do, what was expected of him- should he just… sit there? Do nothing? Should he kiss her? Should he thank her again? Thomas had never been one to open presents in public, had never enjoyed the intrusiveness of others eyes watching. He looked down at his lap and fingered his pen delicately. 

“Thank you, Daisy.” Thomas mumbled as softly as he dared. “Your gift is wonderful.”

At this, Daisy leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Just like you.”  
Thomas shuddered. 

~*~

The rest of the day Thomas walked through heated miasma of regret, shame, and embarrassment. Desperately avoiding Daisy as much as he could, he instead focused on preparing for the farmer’s dinner which would be the following night. There had been no refuge to be found in the abbey, what with the air of Christmas making everyone jovial and the hall boys turning the act of falling out of their chair into a game of amusement. Whenever Thomas walked into the servant’s hall, Gregory would pretend to fall out of his chair with a high pitched reel of shock that sent the others laughing (save for Peter, who instead focused on reading his new book). Thomas had lashed Gregory to the post, forcing him to clean silver despite it technically being Andy and Moseley’s job; he gave the other two the night off, for which they both thanked him. 

Now Thomas sat huddled at John and Anna’s cottage, grieving his prior misfortune. 

“Right in fron’ o’ god an’ everyone… Woman.” Thomas moaned into his hand, slumped on John and Anna’s couch with a cup of tea perched precariously upon his chest. He was practically parallel with the ground at this point, dark fringe falling into his eyes and feet flat upon the floor. “Why. Why would she do that to me, John?” At this, Thomas dropped his hand and looked up to find John just where he’d left him… in his favorite armchair massaging his bad leg. John had no answers, just as mystified as Thomas while Anna sat between them opposite Thomas on the couch. She knitted a scarf, the clicking of her wooden needles oddly soothing as vermilion wool slowly knotted in on itself. 

“Help me, John.” Thomas groaned, covering his burning face back up with a comforting hand. 

To be fair, John had already done more than enough for his sake. Thomas had dug his grave, he’d simply have to lay in it now. 

“It was horribly forward.” Anna tutted, never the one to enjoy open romance. 

“I felt right sorry for you, I can tell you that.” John added with just the slightest hint of irritation. 

“Mr. Carson- egging it all on!” Thomas cried out, and at this he dropped his hand a second time to take up his teacup and saucer. With the grace of a refined footman, Thomas sat back up properly upon the couch to set his teacup upon the coffee table (but not before sliding a lace doily under it). He rubbed his hands across his face, as if the stinging sensation might somehow wake him up more. He needed a cup of coffee… or twelve. 

Thomas sighed, finishing off his tea instead. 

“He gets something out of it, I’ll tell you that.” Thomas sat his emptied teacup back down to situate himself better upon the couch. Thomas was ready to go on nattering about Carson (a subject he could complain about for hours if pressed) but then he noticed John smiling, looking downright…cheery. 

Well, it was Christmas. But still. 

“Why are you smiling?” Thomas asked warily. John just chuckled, sitting up a little better in his armchair and swinging both legs off the ottoman to reach over the side where Thomas could not see. When John straightened back up, he held a neatly wrapped brown paper package in his hands tied in a bow made of lace. 

_Christ is there nothing in this house not touched by lace?_

“We have something for you.” John said, and he stretched out to hand the package over to Anna who took it to offer it to Thomas. Thomas just stared at it dumbly. 

“I-“ Thomas shook his head, hands up to deny the package, “Don’t, I didn’t get you anything.” 

“I wasn’t expecting you to.” John said; his voice was so soft and soothing, not a trace of malice to be heard. Thomas gaped at the package, unable to fathom why John would go so far as to get him a gift when they’d hardly been friends two weeks. It was too much, too soon, and it made Thomas incredibly uncomfortable as he reached out to take the gift from Anna’s hands. Daisy’s gift had been expected, and in a way had felt less like a gift than a sealing of a contract. Some additional clause to a written bargain Thomas had signed his life to. This present was completely different; unexpected and genuine. Thomas had not received an actual present, for his birthday or Christmas, in nearly fifteen years. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. 

What did one do with a Christmas present? 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Anna offered. Thomas flushed, incredibly embarrassed as he sat their gift in his lap and timidly tugged at the lace bow. The paper was stiff and dry in his hands, and warmed under his touch as he gently unfolded it to reveal- 

“I found it in a London newspaper.” John explained as Thomas picked the picture frame up to suck in a shaky breath at its gray toned occupant. “Thought it might do you good.” 

Jimmy Kent stood arm in arm with Jack Ross, beaming delightedly with tousled hair and a cocktail raised high in cheery salute. Jack had a bottle of champagne which was flowing over, and had popped it so that foam was spilling down the side. Both of them were clearly drunk, screaming at people out of the picture frame and weaving about as if they were close to falling over. At the bottom of the picture, block text read, _“Kent and Ross Kill at Local Jazz Jive!”_ … the rest of the article was folded up beneath the picture, out of sight in the small glass frame. 

“Jack Ross is there as well, but I didn’t think think you’d mind.” John added. Thomas touched the glass, then his own throat, marveling at the knot he found beneath the skin. 

“No.” Thomas’ voice was throaty and tight with suppressed emotion as he went back to stroking the glass. Never before had anyone given him such a thoughtful gift, “No, I don’t mind at all. Good lord he looks sauced.” 

“He probably is.” Anna joked, and Thomas laughed in spite of himself. 

He looked up to John, and found him smiling once more in that old leather armchair.  
What a marvel, what a wonder… a picture of Jimmy Kent all for him to own.  
Thomas didn’t know what to say. 

Here would be his private fantasy, his secret image to pine over when Daisy’s affections became too oppressive or Mr. Carson shouted down the house. Thomas could close his door at the end of the day, and take Jimmy’s picture to bed. Curl up with it all night long, tucked between the image and his letters- perhaps even listening to his record if he managed to sleep in the attic one night… wouldn’t that be lovely? To be utterly surrounded by Jimmy? 

Thomas closed his eyes, imagining the scene. 

“Thank you.” Thomas whispered, “This… this means so much to me. Thank you. How can I repay you?” Thomas looked up. John shrugged, hardly troubled. 

“You don’t have to repay me.” John reminded him, taking up his teacup to finish it off. Anna rose from the couch to fetch him a fresh cup. “It’s a gift not a loan.” 

“Yes but-“ Thomas gestured to the picture even as he clutched it to his chest, “I have to do something for you. It’s only proper.” 

John mulled it all over, making a soft grunting noise of thanks as Anna refilled his cup. He took a sip of tea before setting his cup aside and rising from the arm chair. It was heavy effort, he even had to get his cane despite John being able to hobble around his cottage without its aid most of the time. 

“Wait here.” John said, and without another word he left the room. Thomas watched him go, curious, as Anna refilled his teacup. 

“You know you never did tell me how you take it.” Anna said with a smile. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Thomas assured her, “You’re kind enough to offer tea as it is.” 

Anna just made a noise of sweet contentment and returned to the teapot to the kitchen, taking her seat back on the sofa once she was done to continue darning her scarf. Thomas took a quick sip of scalding tea and immediately blew on it as it burned his tongue. 

The sound of creaking wood heralded John’s return as he descended the stairs which lurked just out of sight with a wooden box in hand. It was small, a dual hinged thing clearly meant to house a keep sake, and he offered it to Thomas before returning to sit in his armchair. He rubbed his bad knee gingerly as Thomas carefully set his tea aside on his lace doily to open the box. 

It contained a pocket watch. 

Thomas smiled in spite of himself, unable to keep from making a noise of amusement as he lifted it from its box to turn it back to front. His expertise suddenly kicked in as he registered its make and origin. It was an Edward Prior, obviously from London with its silver casing made of an ornate triple shell. It could probably be placed around 1815… 1816… this was an heirloom. Thomas held it up into the light to better see it, and noted that its hands were still. 

He turned the top, but the hands did not even twitch. His brow furrowed. As he tilted the pocket watch, it suddenly began to tick, and the problem became clear. It was a positional error, something easily fixed and commonly diagnosed. 

“My great grandfather owned that pocket watch.” John explained. Thomas listened as he worked, rising from the couch to fetch his coat from where it hung by the front door. Inside his inner pocket, Thomas carried a small kit wrapped in leather, a simple thing that only contained a pair of tweezers, a small screwdriver, and a loupe. He returned with the kit to the couch, unfolding it over his knee to take up the pocket watch again. “I could never get it to work properly. It’d be nice to wear. You fix that for me and we’ll call it repayment.” 

“Do you carry a watch kit everywhere?” Anna couldn’t help but scoff in amazement as Thomas opened up the back of the pocket watch to reveal rather dusty pallet lever. He removed it, and upon bringing the watch to his mouth gently blew a breath of life into the balance wheel. Using his loupe, Thomas examined the balance staff and found it to be without scores or lines. 

“Yes, I do.” Thomas murmured, “It’s got vertigo.” 

“Vertigo?” John repeated, rather amused. 

“It’s dizzy.” Thomas said, blowing air again into the balance wheel as he rotated it left and right. He tightened the balance staff till it refused to move, blowing once more on the balance wheel before he tightened it as well. Back and forth he went, careful to go slow lest he push the clock past its comfort zone, until finally all was as it should be. He checked his own watch (10:47 p.m.), and reset John’s pocket watch before winding up the pallet lever and clicking down. 

At once it kept merry time, ticking away. 

He handed it back over to John, who leaned heavily across his armchair to take it and hold it up to the light. 

“That’s an Edward Prior.” Thomas said with pride, “A beautiful watch.” 

“What kind of watch do you own?” John asked, curious.  
Thomas smile faltered. 

The fact of the matter was that his watch was stolen, A Barrow and Sons pocket watch that he’d had in his pocket to deliver back to the shop for repairs when he’d been out having a pint. He’d been chucked out upon being returned home after a truly horrific confrontation, and so the pocket watch had come with him as he’d staggered about London. At times he’d thought of selling it, if only to gain something to eat… but he could never go through with it. To him, the watch was almost sacred, a timepiece to honor of a moment in his life when he’d had a home, a family… a place to belong. 

As much as Thomas feared his father, he likewise longed for his support and loved him. He lived in a dual dimension where part of him yearned to gain his father’s approval and part of him wished for nothing more than the man to drop dead. 

“… A Nathaniel Barrow.” Thomas murmured, giving Bates a small smile though it quickly faded when Bates narrowed his eyes in knowing. 

“A relation I’m assuming?” Anna paused in her knitting to take another sip of tea. 

“… My father.” Thomas reached into his vest pocket to pull out his watch. He showed it to Anna and John in turn, both of whom seemed mildly impressed. 

“That’s gold.” John declared. “That’s an expensive watch.” 

“It wasn’t originally mine.” Thomas admitted. “My watch is… gone now.” He wondered what had become of that little pewter pocket watch. It had been engraved with a beautiful bird on the back. As a child he’d loved to put it in the light and watch the image of the bird flicker on the wall. 

John seemed to realize they’d ventured into a topic Thomas didn’t want to discuss. He shot Thomas a small smile and stroked his great grandfather’s pocket watch with care. 

“Well, as I said.” John looked from Thomas to his watch, “Now we’re square.” 

Thomas pocketed his stollen watch to pick up Jimmy’s photograph. He held it to his chest, uncaring how soppy it might have looked to Anna or Bates. 

“Merry Christmas to me.” Thomas murmured, pulling back to look at Jimmy’s sauced grin. 

“And a Happy bloody New Year.” John grumbled indicatively from his armchair. “This time next year may you be reunited with Jimmy Kent and kissing him beneath the mistletoe.” 

Thomas hardly found that funny. 

~*~

It became heavily apparent that something was disturbingly wrong with Carson the following morning as Christmas dawned bright and clear only to find him still intoxicated on sherry. In a stroke of brilliant luck, Thomas’ position as under butler kept the Abbey running while Carson worked out his personal problems (and took a Beecham’s) so that despite his intoxication things ran smoothly and the farmer’s dinner went off without a hitch. Branson was leaving for America, something which deeply trouble Lord Grantham- at least he’d seemed eager to drink (perhaps it was because he’d been forced under a dry spell for health reasons). Thomas scooted about the party, tray in hand as he dispersed spiked punch, and wondered at all the men he ran across. If any of them had happened to be in the Grantham Arms during his fight. Mr. Mason was there, and though he gave Thomas a falsely friendly wave of the hand Thomas merely nodded in his direction before continuing on. He didn’t have time for Mr. Mason, he had a job to do. 

Andy was drinking, which was fine since his lordship had more than granted the act, but Thomas kept a wary eye on him as he took his third helping of punch from Daisy’s offered bowl. Thomas set a tray down, allowing Mrs. Patmore to pile fresh glasses atop as tray and Daisy loaded them with cup fulls of punch. Andy took one for himself, drinking deeply with a blushing grin upon his face. 

“Aren’t you going to have a drink?” Daisy asked him hopefully. She wore her new hair comb tonight, and Thomas could smell the perfume on her neck. It made him slightly ill. 

“I don’t drink.” Thomas told Daisy in short explanation, before turning to Andy to add, “And please don’t let Mr. Carson catch you my night’s in for hell enough as it is.” 

“Oh he’s worse off than me!” Andy huffed, looking over his shoulder. Thomas followed his trail of sight to find Mr. Carson tittering in the corner, bouncing upon his heels as he discussed something jovially with Lord Grantham. It was difficult to say who was drunker. “He seems like a kind man to me. Does he usually drink this much?” 

“No.” Thomas and Mrs. Patmore sneered in unison. They shared a look over Thomas’ tray of loaded drinks, both of them utterly agog at Carson’s bizarre shift in behavior. 

“And he’s a fair man, but I wouldn’t put it any higher than that.” Thomas warned Andy before heading off with his tray of drinks. 

“Thank you.” Andy swaggered with his tray of drinks, winking at Daisy so saucily that she could not help but giggle at his behavior. 

“He’s very cute, isn’t he-?” Mrs. Patmore eyed Andy as he waltzed off, spreading cheer and alcohol amongst the tenant farmers. Daisy watched Andy go for a minute more before shooting Mrs. Patmore a shrewd glance. 

“He’s not as cute as Thomas.” Daisy warned; she touched her hair comb in absent thought, making sure it was fixed well amongst her braids. Mrs. Patmore gave an irritated huff, deciding on the spot that it wasn’t worth arguing with Daisy about anymore. 

Thomas took drinks only to pick up old glasses, careful to scan each face for a scowl or grimace so that he might avoid an awkward situation- he noticed one of the farmer’s eyeing him warily and side stepped the rotund man to hide behind a pillar until he passed. Thomas tray was still half loaded with drinks, but as he made to step out around the pillar again to resume his work he suddenly felt a heavy hand upon his shoulder and stopped dead with a jolt of the heart. 

He turned, unsure of who he’d find waiting there, and grimaced as he saw it to be Carson. 

“Ah, Thomas!” Mr. Carson chortled, “Just the man I wanted to see. How are you getting on tonight?” 

He was beaming at Thomas, as if they were the greatest of friends instead of barely functioning co-workers, his hardened cheeks rosy with an alcoholic flush. His usually menacing eyes were sparkling with delight as he reached out to fix Thomas’ tie which was slightly askew from his hastened pace. Thomas jerked, frightened by the touch. 

Carson had never straightened his tie before. 

“Mr. Carson…” Thomas said, quite nervous of the way Carson was delightedly eyeballing him, “I hate to be impertinent but you’ve been rather under the weather lately-“ 

“I am sick with love,” Mr. Carson sighed, and Thomas scoffed at the notion, “I will not deny it.” 

“A right shame, sir.” Thomas sneered.  
_You know nothing of being sick with love you miserable soggy bastard._

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Carson sighed, and he suddenly reached out again to fix Thomas’ jacket better upon his shoulders, “I’ve thought of you often these past days.” 

Thomas gaped, unsure of how to take such a sentence. Why had Carson been thinking about him? If Carson was about to declare his love to him, Thomas was turning in his fucking notice and leaving on the midnight train for France. Tonight. 

“Only to say that I pity your struggle, lad!” Carson added for further explanation.  
Thomas scowled, disbelieving. 

“I know you’ve been under a trying time.” Carson sighed, “But I am very proud of your behavior as of late! I was worried you were going to run off to London to find that ridiculous Kent! But you’ve stayed, and done me well. And look how beautiful Daisy is tonight?” At this, Carson waved a hand to where Daisy and Patmore were still serving punch at their bowl and table stand. Thomas following his line of sight, sighing as he saw Daisy fix her hair comb, “See that, Thomas. That beauty there is far more worthy of your time than any other man. You deserve to be happy. And you will never be happy chasing after that ridiculous preening peacock. No. you must pursue a girl like Daisy! And i think she’s well suited for you!” 

Carson looked ready to go on, to give Thomas a full fucking lecture on the beauties of Daisy Mason and the irritations of Jimmy Kent until he happened to spot Mrs. Hughes walking through the crowd, keys clinking on her hip and a smile firmly in place. She was wearing her pansy brooch.

Mr. Carson went pale, and immediately reached for a glass of spiked punch upon Thomas’ tray. He drank deeply from it, draining it. 

“One more for luck.” Carson said, and steeling himself he replaced his empty glass for a full one. Thomas was certain if he stayed any longer Carson was going to suck down every goblet on his tray. 

“Mr. Carson-“ Thomas pulled his tray back as Carson reached for a third, “Are you sure you’re well?” 

Mr. Carson just grinned in blissful abandon, and without further ado clapped Thomas on both shoulders so that Thomas’ tray rattled dangerous in his hand, Mr. Carson gave a hearty sniff and said, “M’boy I am _spiffy_. And soon, you shall be be too. If all goes right for us, we’ll have a wedding to plan come morning.” 

Thomas went green at the thought of Mr. Carson waddling over to Daisy with talks of weddings on his lips and quickly made to intervene. 

“It’s a little early for that,Mr. Carson-“ Thomas urged, but Carson just shook his head much to Thomas’ chargrin. 

“No! Tonight is the night, I can fee it in the air.” Carson said. The look of horror must have showed on Thomas’ face, for Carson gripped his shoulders a little more forcibly to say, “Don’t be afraid Thomas!” With gusto, “You must seize life by the horns if you are to every fully enjoy it.” 

“I thought Jimmy _was_ the horns.” Thomas glowered, the talk of weddings souring his mood and making him less than patient with Mr. Carson’s squiffy state. Mr. Carson eyed Thomas carefully, gave another sniff and patted him gently on the shoulders to once again fix his jacket better on his frame. 

“Pick a better bull.” Was Carson’s sagely advise, and with that he left Thomas two drinks lighter to cut a wide path across the open foyer floor to take Mrs. Hughes by the elbow and gesture to the far door. 

Mrs. Hughes just followed him with a bemused smile, putting up with his antics in a manner that could only be described as saintly. 

“I don’t get paid enough for this.” Thomas grumbled bitterly as Carson vanished with Mrs. Hughes down the servants stairs. 

Where they went, god only knows, but by the time they had returned Lady Mary was leading the entire company in a round of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ and the punch bowl was utterly empty. Thomas had carried drinks all night, only to sequester himself in a vacant corner near the back stair well where he hoped to have a moment of peace. Unfortunately for him, with newfound friends on all corners, there was always someone who wanted to talk to Thomas and console him.

So it was that despite having little desire to talk to anyone, Thomas found himself flanked by the Bates even as their company sang the farmers raised their glasses to the family’s health. There was Branson amongst them, looking proud with Robert at his side and the world stretching out before him. Thomas found himself bitterly envious of Branson, of all that he would surely gain in America. He would no doubt find another wife over there, and be happy with an inheritance that he had no rightful claim to. 

Thomas looked down at his feet, pursing his lips. 

The singing was making him sick. It was too sweet and soft, too strong and proud. Too joyful and too clear. 

“I’m sorry Thomas-“ Came a murmur in his ear. Thomas looked up to see John watching him with careful brown eyes. “For everything you’ve endured this past year. But I’m not sorry that we’re friends now.” 

Thomas smiled, though it was a bitter tiny thing.  
Yes, that was something. 

“Thank you John.” Thomas murmured back, “I appreciate that.” 

Anna was singing on John’s other side, she was oblivious to their conversation. In that moment, it was as if Thomas and John were utterly isolated in the hall, lost amid the crowd so that despite the group gathering they were quite alone in their talk. 

John took a step closer to Thomas, bending his head low so that he could whisper right in Thomas’ ear. 

“I want you to know, I truly believe Jimmy loves you.”  
Thomas looked around at John to see a small simple smile playing at his lips. 

Thomas could not find the energy to smile back, “Mr. Bates, if you continue to rattle nonsense I’ll ring for the men in white coats.” 

“Mmm,” John smiled as he straightened back up, looking out across the crowd of tenant farmers, “I think they’d take you first, being a deviant homosexual.” He nudged Thomas gently with his elbow. 

“Didn’t you kill your ex-wife?” Thomas taunted carefully, his tone lilting but his words heavy. John snorted in spite of himself, cutting back a laugh at the last moment before someone could look around to see who was talking mid-song. Thomas nudged Bates back, jabbing him softly in the ribs. 

Even so. 

“… You told me not to give up hope.” Thomas murmured. 

“And I meant it.” John agreed. 

“I think I am, though.” Thomas admitted, the fear rising within him as he realized just how true, how horrible the words truly were. When John looked down at him again, there was clear worry in his face. Thomas almost felt like crying for the horror of it all, “I’m giving up. It’s like… like my soul is dying inside my chest.” 

John shook his head in dismay and pity.  
For the first time in his life, Thomas could not find the energy to fight against it. 

“I’m so sorry, Thomas.” John said, “I failed you.” 

“The world failed me, John.” Thomas corrected him at once, for it anyone had ever failed him, it had certainly never been John Bates. Thomas wished he could reach out in that moment, reach out and take his arm even as the heavenly singing around them grew louder in crescendo. “You never did.” 

John smiled at him bitterly. 

“You’re a good man, Thomas.” 

“You’re the first one to think so.” 

John stood at his side as Anna sang and the tenant farmers swayed on their feet. As Carson and Hughes returned from below arm in arm and looking blissfully happy despite being dewey eyed. As the party began to break up and the family began to say their adieus. As Daisy blew Thomas a kiss and headed back downstairs with Mrs. Patmore. As Anna urged John that they ought to tend to the family, so that they might get home at a good hour for Boxing Day. 

John stood at his side through it all, and for those moments Thomas did not feel so fully alone. But as the party broke up and Thomas broke from John’s shadow to collect empty glasses about the room, he noticed a terrible sinking cold enter his bones. It was as if his words had been the on-bringer of doom, and now that Thomas had admitted them they were suddenly true. Despite the echo of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” and all its cheer, Thomas felt like he was in a state of utter misery and despair that nothing could permeate. Carson was urging them all to bed early, declaring that he himself would take care of the glasses and finish up the party despite it clearly being a four person job and Carson too drunk to even tie his shoelaces. Thomas stayed despite Carson’s pushing and shoving, cleaning glasses in silence until the hall was cleared and the front doors were successfully relocked. 

Thomas returned to his room as soon as he could, exhausted and ready to crawl in bed as if it were his coffin instead. Edward Courtney’s picture was still broken in its frame, and so in an attempt to make peace with his guilty conscience he took John’s Christmas present to unlatch the frame backing and swap the pictures. Jimmy’s picture would be something to sleep with, to keep wrapped up safe- Edward’s could be public and sit in a frame. All the same, as Thomas undressed he sat Jimmy’s photo upright in front of Edward’s face, tossing the broken frame into his waste basket and undressing with haste. His pajamas were warm on his cool skin, a wool fabric that pleased him in the winter months; he hung up each of his livery pieces with care, knowing they’d have to be pressed come tomorrow morning. As he came to his jacket, though, he paused and noted Jimmy’s letter in his pocket. 

He’d still not opened it. 

Thomas was a masochist; he took the letter out of his jacket pocket and sat it upon his bedside table before brushing his teeth and washing his face. He looked fifty years old in the mirror, like a man twice his age who ought to be working less and sleeping more. Yet as he turned back to bed he knew sleep was a long way coming. He still had a letter to read. 

Thomas crawled into bed, flipping off his bedroom lights as he walked past and momentarily obscuring himself in darkness until he reached his bedside light. Turning it on, he promptly fell into the covers and pulled them up over his chest, eager to gain some warmth as soon as possible. Jimmy’s letter was his final Christmas gift, and as he opened it Thomas suddenly felt like a child again about to receive his favorite toy- save that this toy was also laced with cyanid. 

He unfolded the letter, and began to read: 

_“Thomas; Hope your holidays are going well. We’re being worked to the bone over here. Everyone wants Jack at their party, which is good for me because I’m making a fortune- but I’d like to make a sandwich and take a nap sometime soon. Jack doesn’t understand the need for sleep. If it doesn’t involve Jazz, gin, or good looking women he’s not interested. There was a time in my life when I’d fall right into that category, but there’s something about the holidays that reminds you of what and who you’re missing.”_

Thomas smiled in spite of himself. He could almost hear Jimmy’s voice in his head. 

_“I keep thinking about my mother and my father- about all of my family really. I think about Downton and how warm it was when all the fires were lit. My flat is freezing most of the time, tonight I slept at the studio to keep warm. That’s where I’m writing to you from. I’m sleeping under the piano, contemplating sending you a new record. I hoped you liked the last one. This one would be just me on the piano- I’m unsure if you’re interested in that sort of hype. It may just bore you to hear me plugging away, but you never seemed bored at Downton.”_

“God if you send me a record of you alone on the piano, I’ll cry like a soppy maid.” Thomas murmured to himself. Perhaps he could spend his life collecting a healthy pile of Jimmy’s records. One day he’d be Daisy’s husband, crying over their gramophone late at night when she was in bed and their children were fast asleep. 

What a terrible thought; Thomas banished it from his head at once. 

_“I miss you. You were my only friend in the world, and I always cherished our time together. It was the only time that really felt like my own. Like I wasn’t a servant waisting my life away. Like it were all just some game we were playing together for a laugh. I miss the way you helped me keep perspective. Everything’s a jumbled mess. I’m a big mess- like a ball of string that’s gotten all tangled. Remember that time Alfred accidentally knocked over Anna’s yard of lace and it got all twisted on itself? That’s how I feel. like I’ll never come out straight again. I guess you know how that feels. I wish you were here to tell me so, even if it wouldn’t change anything._

_I’m scared for you, Thomas. I’m scared for us both. I felt like such a huge sack of shit the day you were hurt. I keep hearing you in my dreams saying “that hurt”. I can’t get it out of my head. I never meant to hurt you Thomas, I never meant to make you feel bad. I was just so mad at stupid Bates- I hate him I really do. I just had to get him off my back. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t understand. My mouth got ahead of me and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re not a lavender chit, and the first person to say different gets a smack from me make no mistake. You’re so brave, and smart, and funny. I wish this sounded less strange, more natural. I feel like I’m making a fool of myself. I need you here to help me iron it out… but I can’t ask you to help me on you._

 

_I hope you can look past it all, and understand. You used to be so good at that, understanding me. Talking to you never felt like a chore. Felt like I was making music. The best kind of music, you know? The kind that just echoes in your head long after it’s stopped playing. You’re my music, Thomas. You’re the only music in the world… the music I can hear even when everyone’s shut off and gone home for the night. I can hear you right now in my head. Please understand, I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to make the music go away. If you’d just come back and talk to me again I’m sure we could work this out. You’re my only friend in the world. Don’t desert me; it’s the holidays for Pete’s sake._

 

 _ ~~I miss you so much.~~_  
_Merry Christmas and a Happy new year,_  
_Jimmy Kent”_

 

Thomas bottom lip trembled. 

He read the letter twice more, phrases jumping out even as he set the letter aside and turned off his beside lamp to lay wide awake in the dark. 

_“You’re the only music in the world… the music I can hear even when everyone’s shut off and gone home for the night. I can hear you right now in my head.”_

_“ Please understand, I never meant to hurt you.”_

_“You’re my only friend in the world.”_

_“I miss you.”_

_“I miss you so much.”_

And though there was no one to hear it and no one to enjoy it, Thomas found his lips whispering the words to the night air as Christmas turned into Boxing Day and nothing changed. 

“I miss you too.” Thomas whispered. 

In the dark, it was almost as if Jimmy could hear him. Almost as if Jimmy could see him. 

“I miss you so much.” Thomas’ voice cracked; he felt a moisture upon his cheek as it slid into the hollow of his ear. He soul tightened in his chest. A clock wound too hard, a spirit pushed too far. 

He blinked, more wetness. 

“… I love you, Jimmy.” 

He reached out in the dark and took up the letter and Jimmy’s photograph. Pinned close to his chest, kept safe against the beat of his heart, Thomas breathed in deep and smelled the paper. Smelled Jimmy, jazz, and gin. Smelled ink, sorrow, and dust. Smelled everything that kept them apart and everything that tied them together. 

“… I love you.” Thomas mouthed again and again, whispering the words to the paper. 

He was tired, so very tired, and as sleep overtook him in that cold dark room he could imagine Jimmy was hearing him through the paper, through the photograph- could imagine Jimmy was laying beside him and whispering back to him even as he fell asleep. 

_“Sleep, Thomas…”_ Jimmy would whisper soothingly. Thomas only half-listened, his voice muggy with exhaustion. _“I’ll be here in the morning.”_

But come morning, when Thomas woke up, Jimmy was not there.  
He was not surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weren't those barrel rolls lots of fun? Aren't you glad you held out? Aren't you glad Carson doesn't drink on the daily?  
> I know Thomas is.  
> Thomas is very glad Carson doesn't drink on the daily. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to all my lovely reviewers and readers! I hope you've enjoyed.


	16. A Tall Glass of Gin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hadn’t taken long after that; Jimmy had stopped going for women and had instead gone for booze, utterly miserable at the fact that despite no matter how many skirts he grabbed it still didn’t help him feel less empty inside. Elvira had been downright concerned; despite being Jack's mol and the mother of his child, she’d still always had a soft spot for Jimmy. Then it had all come out over a round of drinking one night, as Jack proceeded to sing a very ridiculous ballad of the “Tenacious Thomas Barrow" 
> 
> Elvira and Hilda had been screaming by the end of it, the pair of them swearing they were going to take a train to Yorkshire as soon as the sun rose just to get a good look at Thomas- Jimmy had proceeded to get them so drunk they forgot the entire idea, and though he’d had a splitting headache come morning he’d thought himself very clever all the same. Percy and Fred hadn’t minded; Fred swore up and down he'd been kissed by a boy once though Percy kept ribbing him saying “You're too ugly; a boy would never kiss you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, you heathens. Enjoy your long awaited reunion.

_When the dream began, it was always in that hallway._

_That fucking hallway._

_It was too bright- too goddamn bright- hadn’t it been night time the last time Jimmy had walked through it? Jimmy squinted, stumbling as he tried to trudge to the bitter end. Thomas was there at the back of it, holding all of Jimmy’s sheet music._

_It was stained with gin and blood._

_“Sheets and sheets, Jimmy!” Thomas was frazzled, his hair falling in his face and his gray eyes sparkling with misery as he gestured fruitlessly at Jimmy. It was like he’d already given up hope, “But when have you ever written a sheet to me, Jimmy?” Thomas demanded gesturing to his own chest with his fist still full of piano music._

_“… I’m not very good at letter writing-“ Jimmy managed to splutter out. His voice felt far too thick in his throat. Why couldn’t he talk? Damnit he needed to explain himself, now wasn’t the time to lose his voice!_

_“But you’ll do your best?!” Thomas finished the fable sentence. Jimmy swallowed, stumbling a little more down the hallway. The thick carpet was making him trip. How god damn long was this hallway? “Is this your best Jimmy?” Thomas asked._

_In his hands now were the two letters Jimmy had written him. Jimmy stared at them with dumb misery._

_“…Thomas…” Jimmy whispered, unsure of how best to communicate the sorrow inside of him. “This is all my fault-“_

_He reached, tried touch him, but he couldn’t grasp Thomas. He was like smoke, his image rippling even as Jimmy’s fingers slid through his ‘hair’ to touch his ‘shoulder’. Thomas turned and walked, but as Jimmy followed him their trek only somehow took them right back to the beginning of the hallway._

_To the beginning of everything, before Jimmy had been forced to leave._

_Jimmy looked about, fear noting in horror that smoke seemed to be pouring underneath all the door cracks. The heat in the hallway was palpable, like an oven, and Jimmy’s heart panged with another stab of fear as he saw Thomas smoking as well. As if he were on fire. As if his clothes were aflame._

_Jimmy reached out to grab him. He just kept sliding through- just kept hitting smoke._

_“Remember that night, Jimmy?” Thomas looked down the hallway. Jimmy followed his line of site, and gaped at the site of his own retreating back. He watched himself slip into Anstruther’s room, unsure of what to say or do as Thomas bowed his head and began to weep, “I was so scared. So very scared.”_

_Smoke was obscuring the entire hallway now; they needed to leave quickly or they’d be burnt to a crisp and make no mistake!_

_“Don’t be scared, you ninderbrain!” Jimmy urged; Thomas, scared? The idea was fucking laughable. Thomas Barrow was never scared. Fear fled from his very presence. “What’s there t’be scared of?” Jimmy demanded._

_He reached out again, determined to hold onto Thomas amid the the thickening plums of smoke. They had to get out of the hallway, had to get to fresher air! But Jimmy would not leave without Thomas, and could not begin the process of exiting the hall until they finally connected- until flesh touched flesh instead of smoke. Jimmy threw himself at Thomas, and finally hit him- at once he wrapped himself around Thomas, attempting to protect him from the smoke._

_“I’m right here.” Jimmy urged him, unnerved by the feeling of Thomas shaking beneath his fingers, “I’m not going anywhere, I swear it!”_

_“But I am-“ Thomas mumbled, his voice weakened with smoke._

_“No, you’re not.” Jimmy snapped- he wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t even allow Thomas to say it. Thomas was his closest companion, his best friend. A world without Thomas was not a world that Jimmy wanted to live in. “You’re stayin’ right here with me. You hear me?”_

_“I’m so alone, Jimmy-“ Thomas choked out._   
_The halls were catching on fire now. Flames were beginning to reach the ceiling._

_Jimmy remembered being young and hearing something about how smoke rose; a million images of Thomas smoking flashed through his head and he at once pushed Thomas to take him to the floor. Perhaps they’d get fresher air there._

_“No, don’t say that-“ they were a tangle of limbs, Jimmy pressed his cheek to Thomas’ temple, arms tight around him as the flames grew hotter- higher._

_“I’m so alone-“ Thomas repeated, weeping full out now. Tears soaked his beautiful face, his high cheekbones making for a sharp trail. Jimmy tried to wipe them away, tried to give Thomas some comfort, but he was turning into smoke again and it was difficult to touch him without his hands slipping._

_“Shh.” Jimmy pressed his forehead into Thomas’ temple as best as he could, feeling as if he was holding a cloud more than flesh, “Shh, don’t talk like that-“_

_“Jimmy I’m running out of time-“_

_“No, please, I’m begging you!” Jimmy could not keep a handle on his tongue, the idea of Thomas dying loosening it so that suddenly all of his fears were pouring out, “I’m beggin’ you, Thomas, just hang on a little bit longer, it’s just so confusing for me-“_

_“Jimmy, god I can’t go on!” Thomas howled, head thrown back as he screamed to the burning ceiling. Embers were beginning to rain down on them._

_“You can!” Jimmy urged him, desperate to bolster Thomas’ confidence. But Thomas was a wretch by now, sobbing haggardly in Jimmy’s arms as he suddenly fell slack. Jimmy caught him, shocked to find Thomas’ face littered with bloodied cuts and massive bruises. His legs were twisted at a weird angle, his hair a mop in his face and dirt on his clothes-._

_They were no longer in the hallway. They were underneath a small stone bridge, through which a tiny sour creek ran. Thomas looked just the day he had when he’d been beaten at the Thirsk fair, his livery exchanged for a pinstriped suit and his ribs creaking with every wheezing gasp he spluttered._

_“Oh…” Thomas whimpered, turning his tear and blood stained face into Jimmy’s chest as if to hide his swollen eyes, “That hurt.”_

 

Jimmy Kent gasped awake in his flat, soaked to the skin with his undershirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin and his golden hair plastered to his forehead. 

Thomas Barrow’s broken whimper echoed in his head.   
_“Oh. That hurt.”_

~*~

Daisy wished she knew what was wrong. 

For the past six months, Daisy had watched winter slide into spring and then finally into summer; flowers had come and gone, blooms had grown thick, then thin again as the heat of mid-summer caused them to wilt. Downton had bid farewell to Branson, only to prepare to welcome him back again with the shocking update of his courtship to Lady Mary. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes prepared to be wed, taking their sweet time as if they both weren’t pushing their seventies and on the verge of retirement. Mrs. Patmore had taken up the fancy of a local grocer who’d bought out Joss Tufton’s shop in Rippon to run it twice as efficiently with a considerately decreased libido. The downstairs ran with an odd efficiency it had never known before (save for squabbling hall boys and flighty maids). The upper ten were in synch, but… 

Something was off. 

As the months had slid from winter to spring, Thomas had seemed to grow into a depressed funk that nothing could shake. By the time it rolled around to June, Thomas had become a silent creature (more so than he’d ever been before), and even Daisy had been hard pressed to get him to smile or laugh. Indeed, Daisy couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Thomas laugh. Thomas seemed to live for work, focusing all his time on being of use to the house with the increased wariness of slackening houses and a tightening economy. He’d given up taking half days (much to Carson’s delight and Daisy’s sadness), and though he kissed Daisy as sweetly as ever and held her in his arms, there was a hollowness in his touch that Daisy could not deny. 

Like he was broken from the inside out. 

It was morning, early morning, hardly to the hour of five and Daisy was stoking the kitchen fires to ready the stove for breakfast. She’d already made a cup of coffee, and had poured a second one in the prayer that its smell might attract a certain handsome someone into her kitchen- she was not disappointed when Thomas poked his head around the corner. Immaculately dressed in his livery with hair perfectly coifed, he hardly looked like a broken man… but there was an emptiness in his deep gray eyes as he walked around the kitchen island to greet Daisy. 

She wondered if they were the only two up. 

“Good mornin’.” Daisy murmured, turning from the sink where she’d been washing her hands of soot to stand on tip toe and kiss Thomas sweetly upon the lips. 

“Mornin’.” Thomas mumbled into her touch. He frowned with a soft sigh as she fell back on her heels to offer him his poured cup of coffee. Black, with two sugars. “God you’re an angel.” He said with praise as he took a deep sip. He sighed, soothed by the warmth in his throat. 

“Finally back from America, Mr. Branson-“ Daisy could hardly believe the turn of events as she returned to preparing the stove. Thomas leaned against the kitchen sink, sipping his coffee as Daisy put more logs on the fire beneath the range, “I can hardly believe he’s arriving back today.” 

“I can hardly believe he’s courtin’ Lady Mary.” Thomas grumbled; he scowled into his half-drained cup of coffee. “What a change. Maybe he’ll start on Edith next.” 

“Drink your coffee.” Daisy ordered him softly, giving him a sweet smile as Thomas busied himself with his cup. “You’re just bein’ grumpy because you’re tired.” 

Thomas shrugged. 

Thomas finished his cup to take another one as Daisy pulled out back bacon from the ice box to prepare a skillet for frying. Eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and bowls full of baked beans yet to be heated soon began to cover her island as Thomas looked glumly at his polished shoes and drained his second cup of coffee. He set is aside as Daisy put a skillet atop the stove, a little bit of water in its basin starting to hiss and froth as it heated for a frying temperature. 

Daisy looked around at Thomas, wondering if she might be able to sneak another kiss with Mrs. Patmore yet to show and no one else around to throw up the red flag. Thomas’ mournful expression stopped her, though, and she frowned as she stepped over his feet to stand between his legs. She took his handsome face in her blistered hands, raising his fine chin up so that they were looking at one another. 

His expression was utterly haunted. It disturbed her. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, worried as Thomas reached up to touch his comb in her hair. In the kitchen light, it almost made her hair appear gold. Thomas was often entranced by it, as if he couldn’t believe it lay there. Daisy wore it every day now; it was her most prized possession. Thomas just nodded, still stroking her hair where it looked gold in the light. 

“You never smile anymore.” Daisy murmured, her thumbs stroking Thomas’ cheekbones, “I wish you’d cheer up.” 

Thomas let out a heavy sigh at this, his head bowing forward again- Daisy stopped him with a well placed hand on his chin, using her other to feel his forehead which was cool but not clammy, “You don’t feel fevered.” She pulled back to observe his pale complexion. “Hmmm. Maybe you should still lay down, today.” 

“You know I can’t do that.” Thomas whispered, not meeting her eyes. 

Feeling a sudden pang of empathy for the man she so dearly loved, Daisy stood back up on her toes once more to kiss Thomas softly upon the lips. He accepted the touch, his hands slipping from where he gripped the sink behind him to fall upon her waist. It was an empty touch, something he seemed to do just for the sake of doing it. It was as if he was dead on the inside- as if Daisy was kissing a corpse. She so badly wanted to fill him up with life again, to make him smile and life. If only they could take a vacation, she’d drag him to the seaside and watch him light up again. They’d share a penny lick and frolic in the sand, perhaps sequester themselves behind a great pile of rocks away from the rest of the beach to kiss more intimately. 

Daisy felt a strange heat within her stomach begin to boil at the thought of Thomas pushing her up against a rock, protecting her from the world even as he plundered her lips and lifted her skirts higher-

Daisy pulled back, blushing. She blinked, shaking the image from her head.   
What would her mother say if she knew Daisy was having such thoughts before marriage? Lord she’d never heard the end of it. 

“Sorry.” Daisy whispered, giving a sweet smile at Thomas’ quizzical expression, “I was thinkin’ of us at the beach. Would you like to go to the beach with me?” 

“I’d go anywhere with you.” Thomas said, thought it was a mumbled phrase and hardly said with happy emotion. Daisy took it all the same, kissing him firmly upon the mouth. Thomas’ hand tightened on her waist, sliding to the small of her back- 

“AH-!” Came a hot shriek. Both Daisy and Thomas jumped, their hearts flying in unison as they looked around as one to find Mrs. Patmore fuming from the door of the kitchen with her hands on her hips and her curly hair in her face, “What are you two doin’ in my kitchen!?” 

Daisy pulled back at once, hastily reaching up with a hand to make sure her comb was in place. Thomas dropped his hand from her waist, drumming his fingers upon the kitchen sink again as he looked mournfully down at his polished shoes. 

“Mrs. Patmore!” Daisy greeted her, her voice jumping as she returned to the skillet to being frying the back bacon, “You scared me to death!” 

“You-!” Mrs. Patmore pointed a vindictive finger at Thomas. He didn’t even blink, still scowling softly at his shoes. Even when reprimanded he lacked his usual gusto and spark. “Get out, y’hear me? Get gone! Go fill out yer lists or do somethin’ of use and quit kissin’ my assistant!” 

“Sorry.” Thomas mumbled, heading for the door to the hallway. Daisy watched him go with a sinking feeling of wishful longing extinguishing the fire within her belly. 

God, she wished she knew what was wrong. 

~*~

Six months had passed and nothing had changed, save that Branson was now apparently courting Lady Mary and Mr. Carson was to wed Mrs. Hughes. Thomas cared about neither. 

Since the passing of Christmas, Thomas had found himself slipping into a bizarre state of numbness that he truly didn’t mind. It was as if he’d forgotten how to feel- how to live- and in that had forgotten his original pain. He dressed and washed because he was supposed to. He ate and worked because he was supposed to. He kissed Daisy and held her when she wanted it because he was supposed to. Everything he did now, from the time he rose to the time he fell back in bed again at the end of the day, was because he was supposed to and it was… fine. 

Sometimes it was not fine. Sometimes a horrible blackish misery filled him up to the brim so that he sat on the edge of his bed into the early hours of the morning and cried, inconsolable. Sometimes he was so thrown about in the horror of his life that he felt like a sailor being tossed upon the waves of a stormy sea- his ship already gone and his life surely over. If he’d have been a different sort of man, he would have committed suicide by now. 

But Thomas had never been the kind of easy cop-outs.   
No, if he was dying, he was fighting the whole way down. 

Branson was set to return to Downton on the three o’clock train, and so by three thirty the entire Downstairs staff sans the kitchen employees were assembled out front to flank the family as Lady Mary waited anxiously wringing her hands and Lord Grantham bounced upon his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. Mr. Pelham had been sent to fetch Branson from the station, and so they waited in the blazing June heat as cicadas chirruped in the air and a gentle wind blew at the immaculately clipped lawns of Downton Abbey. Had it been another time, Isis might have been found frolicking in the grass… but Isis was dead now, and so all was silent. 

Till gravel began to churn up the road. 

Lady Mary’s posh expression of benign disinterest melted away in a heartbeat, replaced by that delirious expression of delight which chased all lovers up the wedding aisle as the Grantham motorcar drew closer on the drive and Thomas stood a little straighter at his post. With Carson on his right and Hughes on his left, Thomas blended into the face of the servant’s blank as the car finally came pulling round the bend. Andy and Moseley jetted forward, their pace clipped and quick as they opened the door for Branson to disembark, followed swiftly by Sybbie who wore a lovely blue dress matched by a ribbon in her fine brown hair. 

Lady Mary was barely able to contain her excitement, hands wringing in front of her as she beamed at Branson's approach. Lord Grantham was chuffed, offering out a hand for Branson to shake in merriest greeting. 

“My dear fellow-“ Lord Grantham was saying, “We’re so pleased to have you home.” 

Despite having the servant’s blank up, several servant’s were pleased to see Branson. Anna in particular was fighting back a smile; John wasn’t exactly the man to smile even when he wasn’t wearing the servant’s blank but he did carry a warm expression. Mrs. Hughes was certainly pleased, daring to smile despite the need for propriety… But Thomas only had eyes for Sybbie. 

She hopped out of the car, and despite the fact that her arms found her ‘Donk’ first, her eyes immediately searched for Thomas. The minute she clapped eyes with him, Sybbie detracted herself from Lord Grantham’s to bolt across the yard, gravel flying beneath her brown buckled shoes as she ran straight for Thomas to throw her arms around his waist. He grip was so strong that it broke Thomas’ composure, his servant’s blank shattered by surprise as he caused him to stumble in his stance. 

He put a hand to her back at once, unable to manage a smile but certainly not displeased as Sybbie nuzzled her face into his olive green waist coat. 

“Barrow!” Sybbie smiled up at him, her plump cheeks split wide as she beamed. She nestled her chin into his buttons, mindless of the way Carson glared at Thomas and Lord Grantham looked on in mild amusement. “I missed you.” 

“Mm. I think you missed my chocolates.” Thomas joked; Sybbie just shook her head rapidly, brown hair fluttering at her shoulders as she nuzzled him again. 

“No, I missed you.” She murmured into his vest.   
Still, Thomas reached into his jacket pocket to find a wrapped chocolate for her welcome-home prize. As he handed it to her, under the cover of her arm and away from Carson’s blazing eyes, Sybbie instantly took it to pop it into her mouth. 

If Thomas had his way, Sybbie would wear jewels made of chocolate and colored candies, would be surrounded by sweets for all the sweetness she brought into his life. He found his hand upon her hair, running through her perfumed brown locks. His dosage of affection was cut short, however, when Branson suddenly came walking over to warmly greet Carson and Hughes- Thomas dropped his hands at once and stiffened in his posture to resume the servant’s blank. Sybbie felt it beneath her touch, but still did not make to let go of him, chewing on her chocolate and holding him just as she’d done since she was a toddler. 

Branson eyed her affectionate embrace with well-known amusement, giving Thomas a small smile that Thomas did not return. 

“Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes was quite glad to have him back; Branson tipped his hat to her, “I trust your journey was a smooth one?” 

“Not a complaint in the world- Isn’t that right my love?” Branson added to Sybbie, who was still quite content to hug Thomas round the middle. 

“I couldn't wait to get back.” Sybbie declared. 

“That is because you belong here, Miss Sybil.” Carson said with pride, and for the first time in what was surely a century, Thomas agreed with him. 

It was with a sinking feeling that Sybbie let go of him to return to Branson; Thomas felt an odd sort of emptiness overcome him as Sybbie drifted away. 

He had a fondness for children, and he knew why. It made an ugly feeling of bitterness and guilt crawl up inside of him. There were two little boys that he would never know. 

He watched Sybbie walk back inside with a resigned air of malcontent, slipping back on the servant’s blank as quickly as he could before Carson could turn around and see him looking melancholy. 

It wouldn't do to look like he had a heart in front of the man who was convinced he didn’t. 

~*~

The very first memory Sybil had was of Barrow. 

She’d been incredibly small, no older than two surely, and hiding from a nanny whose name she’d never known but whose touch she could not forget. She been struck, why for Sybil had never known, and so she’d run from the foul woman to sequester herself in a linen closet and cry. She’d thought herself utterly alone in the world, despite how Donk played games with her in the library and Daddy rocked her in his strong arms. Where were Donk and Daddy now when she needed them? Why wouldn’t anyone defend her from that horrible woman? Why wouldn’t anyone listen to her when she pleaded and cried? 

Then the door had opened, and Sybil had looked up with tear filled eyes to see a tall man with high cheekbones and a domineering stare looking down at her, befuddled. She’d cried even harder at first, thinking that she’d surely be in even greater trouble for straying out of bounds and being found by the butler. 

Instead, she’d been promptly picked up, and despite not knowing the man’s name nor what could come next, Sybil had buried her face in his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck. 

He’d held her for quite a long time, his hand patting her back till her sobs had turned to hiccups. Together the pair of them had walked around the house, first going to the gallery and then to the library where Donk had been talking to her Daddy about something or the other. Donk had insisted Sybil be returned to her Nanny, where upon which Sybil had begun to cry plaintively, clinging hard to the man’s neck and begging into his bow-tie. 

_“I’ll take her, M’lord.”_ the man had said, _“I don’t mind at all.”_

And that had been that. For the rest of the day Sybil had been perched upon the man’s hip as he worked about the house with only one hand and a smug smile. She’d certainly earned him a queer stare or two. A handsome blonde servant had even said, _“Oh look, you’ve got a Moll now!”_ to which her savior had simply replied, _“Well I do have fine tastes.”_

The blonde servant had thrown his head back and laughed. 

Her cruel nanny had never liked the man, had seemed to know that he was aware of her treachery and violence, so that when she hissed his name it was almost like a snake spitting at flame- _“Barrow!”_

And so Sybil had learned the name of her savior, and had never forgotten it. When her cruel nanny had been sent away, Sybil was certain that Barrow was behind it all. That Barrow had somehow rooted her out and shooed her away- he was such a wickedly clever man. Her next nanny had been much kinder, and though she’d been slightly wary of Barrow she hadn’t minded when Sybil had asked for Barrow to pick her up and hold her. Barrow had been happy to oblige, usually accompanied by that same blonde servant who’d tickled her under arm till she’d laughed. 

_“You must be giving her sweets, to have her love you this much.”_ the blonde servant had laughed, though Barrow had never given her a sweet. The next day though, Sybil had been utterly delighted when Barrow had slipped her a chocolate upon picking her up. He’d leaned in, whispering in her ear. 

_“Just between you and me?”_ Sybil had stuffed the chocolate in her mouth at once, savoring the rich taste. 

_“Barrow.”_ Sybil had said in her sweetest voice, sucking the chocolate off her fingers as she laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart beat through his vest. 

Now, Sybil was five, and though she could not feasibly get away with Barrow picking her up and carrying her about anymore she still sought him out around the house. Her Daddy had been determined to speak with Mrs. Hughes, the aged house keeper whose smile was full of soothing sweetness. Sybil had followed him, eager to go downstairs, certain she’d find Barrow if she did. She’d searched past the kitchens were a cook wearing a hair comb was instructing maids to dice and stew a great pile of vegetables… Barrow was not there. She went to the servant’s hall where a man with a cane and a woman with straw colored hair were talking over a paper- Barrow was not there either. 

Rather put out, she stepped forward, best manners face front as she politely coughed and caught the attention of the man with the cane. He smiled warmly at her. 

“Excuse me. Where is Barrow?” Sybil asked in what she hoped was a most proper voice. The man’s smile grew even wider, tinged with amusement as he gave Sybil a knowing look. 

“He’s in the Butler’s pantry, Miss Sybil.” the man said. 

“Thank you, sir.” Sybil said, and without another word she turned to scoot down the hall.   
But then it suddenly struck her that she did not know where the butler’s pantry even was, so she came running back into the servant’s hall to find the man with the cane talking once more with the straw haired woman. 

“Excuse me, sir.” Sybil said, “Where is the Butler’s Pantry?” 

The man with the cane rubbed his brow, his smile growing more and more amused. 

“You come with me, Miss Sybil.” The straw haired woman said, stepping around the man with a cane to offer her hand for Sybil to take. Sybil did so at once, “We’ll get you straightened out.” 

The lady took her down a long hallway, past a balding man polishing silver with a curly haired youth. Near the end of the hall they reached a large door, which the lady knocked upon to open it wide for Sybil to peer inside. 

There, behind a desk cluttered with papers, sat Barrow. He looked thoroughly annoyed at first, but as soon as he saw Sybil his expression fell slack into benign amusement. He seemed sad but pleased at the same time. 

“A visitor, Mr. Barrow.” The lady said; Sybil slapped from her and to run across the room. She stepped around the desk to climb into Barrow’s lap, allowing him to pick her up underneath the arms so that she could rest comfortably upon his broad thigh. The lady left with a smile, and in their newfound solitude Sybil at once reached about to bury her head back in his dark green vest. 

“I missed you.” Sybil declared, though she’d already said it before. 

“Miss Sybbie, what are you doing down here?” Barrow asked, sounding slightly amused just like the man with the cane. 

“I wanted to watch you work.” 

“And where’s your papa, neh?” Barrow asked, looking up as if he half expected her Daddy to walk through the door. It was funny, despite always being sweet to Sybil, Sybil got the firm impression that Barrow didn’t particularly like her Daddy. 

This was odd to her, since her Daddy was wonderful. A true prince from a fairytale. Perhaps Barrow just had a sternly disposition. Yes, that was it. Barrow and Daddy were probably very good friends; Barrow was just grumpy like Donk and Aunt Mary. 

“He’s gone to see Mrs. Hughes. He needs a valet.” Sybil declared, and then just to show Barrow how smart she was, she proceeded to spell Valet for him, “V-a-l-e-t.” 

“I see.” Barrow said, continuing to write on his paper. It was full of boxes and fine print- it looked quite exhausting. Sybil watched him for a moment before asking the obvious question. 

“What are you doing?” Sybil wondered as Barrow checked off another box and flipped through several pages of heavily inked paper to observe an older sheet beneath the top. He did it all with one hand, his other never leaving Sybil’s waist as he held her to his side. 

“The inventory.” Barrow said, and though Sybil had no idea what an inventory even was, she could tell it was very hard. “I have to do it every day… I-n-v-e-n-t-o-r-y.” Barrow cocked an eyebrow. 

Sybil gaped at him; he was incredibly smart, to spell such a long word. 

“You have beautiful hand writing.” Sybil sighed. His letters were quite small, but his spacing between words slightly wider than was technically necessary. His cursive was neat, his loops quite narrow- he slashed his ‘I’s and had quite long crosses on his ’T’s. 

“Will you write my name?” Sybil asked, looking up at him hopefully. Barrow just smiled at her, pulling out a scratch piece of paper from within his writing desk to set it on top of his unfinished inventory. She watched with glee as he wrote her full name, _‘Miss Sybil Branson’_ . 

It looked so lovely under his pen. Like the name of a true lady.   
Perhaps she could have him write all her letters for her. They could make a contract with biscuits and chocolate- he wouldn’t mind, she was certain. 

“Now your name?” She asked. 

Barrow just shrugged, hardly concerned, and underneath Sybil’s name he wrote his own: _‘Thomas Nathaniel Barrow’_. 

“…Thomas…” Sybil pronounced the name, looking up to Barrow in wonder. He smiled down at her. “Your name is Thomas?” 

“It is.” He declared. She was amazed by it. 

“Write Daddy’s name!” Sybil urged; she suddenly wanted to know everyone’s names. Thomas Nathaniel Barrow was happy to oblige, writing out: _‘Tom Branson’_ upon the page. Sybil cooed at it, very pleased. It made sense that Daddy and Barrow should have similar names. They were such similar people. Perhaps all similar people had similar names. 

“Now Donk!” Sybil urged. Barrow chuckled a little under his breath as he wrote the very long and illustrious name: _‘Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham’_. 

That was a very long name to have. Donk suited him better. 

“Why is it so long?” Sybil asked, slightly put out. She squirmed on Barrow’s thigh, scooting a little closer to him as he set down his fine green pen to hold her close. He smelt like cigarettes and something else- a ginger spice, she decided. 

She liked it. It was soothing. 

“Your grandfather is very important, Miss Sybil.” Barrow said. “Important people have long names.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” Sybil declared, “You’re important but your name isn’t long.” 

Barrow looked down at her with a small smile.

“I’m hardly important.”   
“You are to me!” 

Barrow just cocked another eyebrow and went back to the inventory. 

Sybil took the moment to observe Barrow’s face, truly observe it. He had a very handsome jaw, with smooth lips and a sharp nose- eyes that were gray but had flecks of green within. His hair was black, without a trace of brown- the kind of black that everybody surely wanted. There was a slight discoloration in his skin, a darkening where stubble might surely be if he did not shave. There were dark bags underneath his eyes, a purple tint that hinted at a lack of sleep. 

He looked truly miserable, and that did not set right with Sybil. 

“Why are you sad?” Sybil asked. Barrow paused mid- word on his inventory; his gray eyes danced over the page. 

“Am I sad?” He asked, absently after a moment of tense silence. 

“Yes.” Sybil said, for it was obvious that he was blue. Perhaps he didn’t know it. 

Barrow set his pen down again. 

“Please don’t be sad.” Sybil urged. “I love you.” 

Barrow smiled, but it was a hesitant, tiny thing, and it did not reach his eyes. Eager to make him happy again, Sybil reached up and kissed him gently upon the cheek. His skin was bristly with just the tiniest hint of hair to be shaved, and as she pulled back she saw that Barrow’s eyes were closed. He looked almost asleep. 

“Found you again!” 

Barrow startled from his little nap, shocked to find Sybil’s Daddy standing in the door of his office. Sybil, however, was delighted, and at once hopped off Barrow’s leg to rush around the desk. Her Daddy picked her right up, his arms strong and secure as he held her to his side. Sybil put her arms around his neck, watching as Daddy gave Barrow a rather tired smile. 

It didn’t reach his eyes either. 

“I’m sorry if she’s been a bit of a bother.” Daddy said, but Barrow did not look ruffled. He merely picked his pen up again and resumed his inventory. 

“Miss Sybil is never a bother.” Barrow warned, his voice hinting with slightest dissatisfaction. Her Daddy nodded at him, looking quite ready to leave, but even as he turned to go and take Sybil with him, Sybil reached out her hand towards Barrow. 

“Wait!” She cried out; her Daddy paused mid-step, “Can I have my paper?” 

Barrow stopped his inventory again, rising up from his desk to give Sybil the piece of paper full of names. She folded it with deft hands, slipping it into the pocket of her jacket. 

“Were you writing names?” Daddy asked, intrigued. 

“Yes. Barrow has lovely handwriting.” Sybil declared, “And he’s very important to me even though his name is not long.” 

Barrow just gave the tiniest huff of amusement. 

“I love Barrow.” Sybil said, deciding on the spot, “I think I might marry you someday.” 

At this, Daddy laughed outright; Sybil was pleased to note that Barrow did not laugh, however. Perhaps he was taking her offer seriously? 

“I think that would prove to be very awkward. Don’t you agree, Thomas?” but Thomas did not seem to agree with her Daddy, his gray eyes growing very tired as he simply continued to smile. 

“Oh I don’t know.” Barrow shrugged, “I’d be perfectly content with it.”   
Sybil beamed. 

“No you wouldn’t.” Her Daddy chortled in great amusement. “You’d hang yourself from the nearest tree to get out of it.” 

Barrow’s eyes went dead, all warmth fleeing from their gray cores as he looked away back towards his desk. 

“Excuse me.” He murmured, passing by her Daddy to leave out the door and down the hall. Sybil pouted, rather put out at the quick exit- he’d clearly been embarrassed. 

“Daddy you embarrassed him!” Sybil complained. “Now he’ll never marry me.” 

“He’d never marry you anyways.” Her daddy assured her, which struck her as a frightful concept until he added, “Mr. Barrow is far too old for you! He’s my age. Don’t you want someone your own age?” 

“No.” Sybil shook her head emphatically. “I want Barrow. And now he’s gone and left his pen!” Sybil added, spotting his lovely green pen still sitting upon the desk. “We have to give it back to him. He won’t be able to do his inventory without it. I-n-v….” Sybil broke off, suddenly overwhelmed by how very long that word was. Barrow had made it look so easily. 

“Yes, yes.” Her Daddy rolled his warm brown eyes, “That was a very big word- maybe something smaller next time. Like paper.” 

“P-a-p-e-r.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

Her Daddy walked over to Barrow’s desk and picked up his green pen to hand it to Sybil for safe keeping. She held it to her chest, determined not to leave it as the pair of them left the office to search for Barrow down the hall. They passed by the woman with straw colored hair, and her Daddy stopped her with a warm hand. 

“Anna, have you seen Thomas? He left his pen and Sybbie wants to give it back to him.” Her daddy explained. The straw-haired lady smiled warmly, reaching up a hand to pluck a loose string from the cuff of Sybil’s blue dress. 

“I just saw him enter the boot room.” The lady said. “I bet he’ll still be there.” 

“Thank you!” And they were off again, turning down another hall which was mostly deserted save for a stray servant that was leaving in haste with a pair of shined shoes in tow. They reached a far door, but as her Daddy reached to push it open, he paused. His brow furrowed as he leaned in a little. Able to see into the room through a crack in the door, her Daddy narrowed his warm eyes at the significant sound of hitched breathes. 

Sybil gasped at the sound of labored breathing, shocked senseless as the sliver she saw of Barrow bent over an island table, clutching the wood as if he feared he might slip and fall into a hole- he wasn’t crying, not really. Instead he looked like he was drowning, or simply losing breath- he kept gasping, his face screwed up in agony as he let go of the table with one hand to touch his breast, terrified. But what was he scared of? If something could scare Barrow, make him so truly upset… then it most be an awful thing that would surely eat Sybil alive. 

Her Daddy stepped back from the door, refusing to open it. He turned, and without another word walked up the hall till they were a good distance away from the door. When they were at the other end of the hall, her Daddy paused. He still looked quite confused. 

Sybil did not like the idea of something confusing her Daddy and upsetting Barrow. It was too big for her, too much for her to understand. They’d just gotten back from their trip, how could things be so wrong so quickly? 

But her Daddy caught wind of the traumatized expression upon her face, and instantly cupped her cheek to give her a warm smile. 

“Not to worry, love.” He assured her softly. “Sometimes people need a good cry. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.” 

Sybil certainly hoped so; she clutched Barrow’s fine green pen to her chest, quite frightened. 

~*~

Tom Branson had seen some truly unnerving things in his life. Thomas Barrow on the verge on an anxiety attack was near the top, but certainly not the worst. 

He’d seen his grandfather face down the barrel of an angry farmer’s gun only to be shot dead, had heard his cousin Nula screaming for her daughter even as the baby was torn from her arms to be raised as her sister. He’d watched in agony- in a pain that had never been matched before or since- as the love of his life died in his arms. 

Nothing topped Sybil’s death. Nothing. Nothing could even come close to comparing-… but Tom had to admit that watching Thomas on the verge of collapse, shaking with restraint even as his heart had screamed in his breast was… odd. 

Upsetting, and odd. 

And so, green pen in hand, Tom returned downstairs to seek out the companionship and advice of the only woman who had helped him make sense of his life since his late grandmother (god rest her golden soul): Elsie Hughes. In a way Mrs. Hughes reminded him of his grandmother; he could remember from his youth when his grandmother had driven a horse and buggy with one hand to market while using her other hand to beat at a whole haggle of screaming children in the buggy behind her. She’d used a horse whip, smacking them all around the face as they fought and squabbled with each other over who could sit where and who could touch who. 

She’d been a god fearing woman, but Tom was certain god had feared her back. 

Mrs. Hughes was in her sitting room, just where Tom predicted he would find her, going over several sheets of god-knows-what with a weary frown upon her face; she had to use reading glasses now. They were perched upon her long nose, slipping slightly with a bead of sweat in the mid-June heat. 

She looked up when Tom entered, a sweet smile upon her face as Tom rapped gently upon her open door. 

“I’m afraid I’m becoming quite the pest.” Tom said, closing the door behind him lest they be disturbed. Mrs. Hughes laughed at this, taking her glasses off to fold them up and slide them onto her key belt. 

“You’re never a pest Mr. Branson.” 

“Won’t you please call me Tom?” 

“You know I can’t.” Mrs. Hughes waved for him to take a seat on the opposite side of her desk. He did so. “What can I help you with?” 

Tom reached into his vest pocket, pulling out Thomas’ green pen which he handed over to Mrs. Hughes. She took it, befuddled to find Tom in possession of it. 

“Thomas left this behind earlier today.” Tom explained, “Sybbie spotted it, and wanted to give it back to him. I tried to approach him in the boot room but…” Tom broke off, pursing his lips. “May I speak frankly with you?” 

“I should hope so.” Mrs. Hughes urged. Tom gave her a waning smile. It was nice to know Mrs. Hughes was such a receiving ear. 

“What’s wrong with Thomas?” Tom asked, curious. “He was practically having a panic attack in the boot room. It scared Sybbie rather badly- you know how fond she is of him.” 

Mrs Hughes pursed her lips, running her pruning fingers over Thomas’ smooth green pen. 

“You’d better stay for a spell, this is rather long story.” Mrs. Hughes said, fixing Tom with a stern look, “And I expect it to stay between us.” 

Tom raised his hands in clear surrender. “As you wish.” 

And so she began. 

Tom listened to it all, from the shocking revelation that Thomas had dared to try and cure his nature with shocks and pills to the (frankly hysterical) fact that he was now courting Daisy. Suddenly Tom realized how his dark joke about marriage (a benign thing certainly without implication) could have been taken from a terrible foreboding. Worst of all, the fact that Thomas had tried to so hard to get Jimmy back in the house- only to have failed… though the idea of Jimmy in Jack Ross’ jazz band was quite amusing. 

“... My god." Branson muttered, rubbing his jaw as he sat back in his chair. “What a mess. And Daisy has no idea that Thomas is…?” 

“No.” Mrs. Hughes shook her head, “And Thomas won’t tell her. He's lead himself up the garden path and right over a cliff. Most days we can hardly get him to talk. Smiling is flat out, I'm afraid.” 

“I see.” Branson dropped his hand to drum his fingers upon the table. “And Jimmy?” 

“Mr. Bates says he’s powerless.” Mrs. Hughes was quite downhearted about it all, sighing as she laced her fingers over her leg. Still, at least Bates had tried at all. That was something. 

As far as Tom knew, Bates and Thomas hated one another (and who could blame Bates after Thomas’ shitty attitude). Things must be bad if even stoic Bates was standing up for Thomas’ case. 

But in truth, he wouldn’t have been the first. 

_“I don’t see why everyone dislikes Thomas.” Sybil had grumbled, mid motorcar ride back from the hospital. Tom shot her an amused look as she unpinned her nurses’ hat from her head, “He’s the salt of the earth, if only he knew it.”_

“It’s funny-“ Tom said, suddenly struck by the beauty of Sybil’s kindness once again, “Sybil adored Thomas.” 

_“O’Brien’s an odious woman but Thomas is really quite nice.” Sybil had assured him._

_“Is he?" Tom had challenged, “Seems to me that he just spends his time making other people miserable-“_

_“Oh he’s just grouchy, that’s really all a wall he’s built to keep others out. I simply adore Thomas- the real Thomas, you know?” Sybil had added for clarification, “He’s actually quite sweet.”_

“Thomas cared for her as well.” Mrs. Hughes agreed, her tone softening at the memory of Sybil and all that she’d left behind, “He was broken hearted when she passed. Anna had to dry his tears.” 

Tom sighed, shifting a little in his seat as he thought it all over. Really it was ridiculous- Thomas couldn’t possibly think that courting Daisy was a good idea. He was bound for disaster… and a noose. 

“I feel badly.” Tom admitted, “I know he cared for her a great deal, and Sybbie’s on the verge of asking for his hand in marriage. I ought to have helped him, looked in on him, but- he's not the looking sort-!” Tom huffed as Mrs. Hughes gave a tiny bubbling laugh. 

“No.” She agreed with a chortle, “No he’s not.” 

“I won’t pretend that I personally like him.” Tom added, for her certainly wasn’t overly fond of Thomas and his acerbic attitude. “But… I know what it feels like to be apart from the one you love. It’s a horrible feeling. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.” 

Mrs. Hughes said nothing for a moment, simply rubbing her fingers together as Tom re-situated himself upon his chair. 

“There's nothing to be done, Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes sounded quite bitter over it. She pursed her lips before saying, “Mr. Carson will not hire James back. He believes that the house, that Thomas, is better off without Jimmy. I’ve tried to convince him otherwise… but he will not listen. Not on this subject.” 

Tom snorted, thinking of Jimmy Kent and all his ridiculous flattery. He’d been a prancing peacock and no mistake. He’d also been incredibly stylish- if only Tom could hire him on as a valet, Mary would surely be impressed. He’d be the most dapper Irish Mick since… 

Well, he’d probably be the _first_ dapper Irish Mick. 

“… Does it have to be Mr. Carson?” Tom asked, a strange idea suddenly blooming upon him, “Could someone else hire on Jimmy? Could that work?” 

Mrs. Hughes took a minute to think it over, recrossing her legs as she narrowed her eyes and looked from Tom quizzically. 

“It could, technically.” Mrs. Hughes said, “Though he wouldn’t be under Mr. Carson’s supervision and I can hardly see him enjoying that.” 

“Ah, but now I have you!” Tom urged, pointing a warm finger at Mrs. Hughes. “And you can help me sate the beast, yes?” 

Mrs. Hughes looked quite tickled by that. She gave Tom a tiny smile, quirking her brow at the insinuation. 

“Perhaps.” She said, but Tom was convinced Mrs. Hughes could sooth Carson- if anyone in the house could sooth Carson it would be Mrs. Hughes. His fiancé. Tom nearly giggled aloud at the thought, “But what are you trying to say?” 

Tom drummed his fingers on the table, sliding his hand across the wood to take back Thomas’ pen from Mrs. Hughes. She gave it over at once, the green wood warmed from her hands. 

“l have an idea.” Tom assured her. “A good idea, but I’m going to need this pen back. I have to talk to Thomas.” 

“Heaven preserve us.” Mrs. Hughes said dryly as Tom rose from his chair and headed back for the door, “Well at least you know where the sand buckets are kept.” 

Tom was not perturbed. Acerbic and nasty Thomas could be, particularly when pressed on a private subject, but Sybil (sweet, beloved Sybil) had known better, had urged Tom to see the sweet side. If anything his new side quest was now a mission taken on specifically for her. So that she might look down from the fields of heaven to see him enacting her will and know that he was still the good man she’d so loved. There had been times in his life when Tom had wondered if he was truly a good man, a good father, a good husband- now would not be one of them. 

He would help Thomas Barrow. He would give him no choice. 

Tom found Thomas, once again, in the Butler’s pantry going over the final inventory list of the day with an old pen that looked ready to break in two. Tom straightened his vest a little before knocking on the door to garner Thomas’ attention. 

Thomas did not even look up, he merely continued to work. 

“What.” Thomas muttered dryly. 

“Hate to bother but your pen looks done in.” Tom called from the door. Thomas looked over his shoulder with a cold and bitter expression. He glared as he saw his green pen in Tom's hands. “Sybbie found your green pen and wanted me to give it back to you. A sort of betrothal gift if you will.” 

Thomas did not find the joke funny, sticking out a hand with a hard thrust for Tom to hand the pen over. Tom held onto it for just a second longer, knowing that the longer he could preserve this conversation the better it would be. 

“As it so happens, I need your help.” Tom said, “And I’ll gladly give you your pen back if you do me the favor of telling me Jimmy Kent’s address.” 

Thomas's expression slid from hot to cold, his hand falling from mid air to lay unclenched at his side. He returned to his inventory list with his malfunctioning pen, slipping a finished sheet from his battered clip board to rise up from the desk and stow the the entire lot away in a wooden filing cabinet against the wall. 

“You seem to be under the impression that I have it.” Thomas said dryly. 

“And don’t you?” Tom asked, twirling Thomas’ green pen in his hands. 

Thomas slid the door of the wooden filing cabinet shut with unnecessary force, glaring at Tom again as he clasped his hands behind his back. 

“And if I do?” Thomas demanded. “What do you need it for- Mr. Branson?” Thomas added with heavy implication. Tom pursed his lips, bottling up a well aimed comment of _‘Oh stuff it you nancy, I know you don’t like talking to me!’_

He thought up a lie and thought it up quick, anything to keep Thomas off his trail. 

“Rose wants a jazz band to perform at a party of hers before she leaves for America with Atticus.” Tom lied, “And you know how she loves Jack Ross. You won’t deny Jimmy good business will you?” 

Thomas pursed his lips, far from amused. 

He stormed back over to Carson’s desk, pulling out a spare bit of parchment to tear away a small square. Tom offered him over his green pen, and Thomas all but ripped it out of his hand to cast the weathered one aside in order to write down Jimmy’s address. 

“… You know, Sybbie's quite convinced you’re going to marry her.” Tom added, softly. “She’s right smitten with you. Wouldn’t stop rabbiting about you on the boat ride over. I think she was more excited to see you than Lord Grantham.” 

Thomas did not reply, but Tom noted that Thomas paused just slightly as he wrote down Jimmy Kent’s address. His eyes softened imperceptibly, his back seemed a little less stiff. 

He finished writing and held out the scrap of paper without a word; he did not so much as even look at Tom as Tom took it from his hand. 

“… I heard about Daisy.” Tom admitted. Thomas bristled again, gray eyes glazing over with a stony hardness. “Rather tough hurdle to jump, don’t you think?" 

“No.” Was all Thomas said, and his voice was miles away from the soft murmur that Tom had seen him whisper into Sybbie’s ear, “I don’t.” And with that he left the office to go god knows where and do god knows what. Tom watched him go, rather miffed at his short and cold behavior. 

But to be fair, if he were being forced to date another man for the sake of societal pressure… he might be a little cold and short too. Not to mention sore. 

~*~

Some things pissed Jimmy off without any reason for why. 

Good cheese without crackers to put them on, rainy days that coincided with half days so you couldn’t even spend them outside, new rags about the Dare sisters that just repeated old news, and the bloody fact that despite being a piano whiz his lyrics were (in a word) shit. 

Complete, utter, bollocking shit. 

_“And if I ever had a friend, I knew it in your touch; who’d have thought a man like me could ever love this much-?”_ Jimmy lilted down than up, groaning a little as he dabble upon the keys of his practice piano. 

When he played in jazz halls, whether it be the London House or the Criterion, the piano was always the target of his attention. He wanted to know its make and model, who’d last tuned it and what conditions it was kept in. Above all, he wanted to play it, really dig his fingers into it, so much so that despite having a performance at seven, Jimmy would arrive at five just to get an hour of playing in before the rest of the band showed and started warming up. Jack Ross owned three pianos, one of which was Jimmy’s by divine right: the piano in their rehearsal square. It was an August Förster upright piano… a lovely thing with a candelabra on either side of the music stand so that Jimmy could play into the late hours of the night without running up the electricity bill. Pianos were easy to him, wonderful fair weather creatures that (if you treated them right) could be life long friends. He supposed Thomas might feel the same way about clocks. 

Jimmy shook his head; he was determined not to think about Thomas once today. 

When Jimmy had been thrown out on his backside, he’d gone to London without truly knowing why. In a way London felt like home; it was vibrant and full of life, but it was also damn expensive and frankly despite having an adequate reference from Carson there were no service jobs to be found that didn’t exist in hotels or restaurants. Jimmy had frequented both, just trying to find money to eat and sleep- but had lived for the night hours when he’d haunt jazz halls and play the pianos in the back corners. Three weeks into his homeless ventures of hotel living, Jimmy had been moping around a booze stained piano in the corner of the Velvet Violin, and had run into Jack Ross who had told him he was, under no uncertain terms, “a tall glass of cold gin”. Jimmy had been utterly delighted to join Jack for a spell, playing piano as back up while Jack sang and wooed the crowd… but when the booze stopped flowing and the lights dimmed, Jack realized that Jimmy was homeless. 

And the rest was history. 

Jack had a small hideaway off of St. Christopher’s Place, just south of Bayswater and the park near the Wallace Collection, and it was here that he had brought Jimmy to sleep while Jimmy ‘sorted himself out’. For a while Jimmy had played jazz every day and every night until he was a regular in Jack’s band, and then Jack had realized that Jimmy was far too comfortable at 23 Greengarden House... and would not be moving out. So Jack had allowed Jimmy to move in to the upstairs of their practice square, a tiny one bedroom flat with a kitchenette and a water closet so small you couldn’t stretch your arms out good. But Jimmy didn’t care because it was a damn sight better than the hotel room he’d been staying in for three weeks and best of all? It was without rent. Jack’s rent consisted of piano playing. So long as Jimmy played the piano for him, Jimmy got to stay. 

Naturally, Jimmy had been staying ever since. 

Jack's band was a tidy little group of five (sans Jimmy himself), and included Jack’s long time Mol Elvira Sellars who featured as a main singer, Elvira’s best friend Hilda Taggart who broke the laws of god and man on a saxophone, Hilda’s brother Percy who swooned on the trumpet, and finally Frederick (Freddy) Alves who beat a drum better than Mrs. Patmore beat a pudding. Jimmy was their piano man, taking over for a guy named Cecil whom they apparently all hated (and claimed couldn’t play) so Jimmy found himself in right good company as they worked, played, and drank together at all indecent hours of the night. Jack now lived with Elvira, having moved out to let Jimmy take over his apartment above their practice studio, but he came by every day to sing and work out lyrics to rags new and old. 

Jimmy was trying his hand at in and failing upon the piano, eager to put to ballad something that had been bothering him for quite a long time. 

Jimmy could play Thomas easily. Playing him was as natural as breathing, a lilt up and down of tinkling soft chords as Jimmy enunciated the way Thomas’s lips curled with smoke and wetted under the flick of his tongue. But writing him was different- difficult- because writing meant verbally admitting what his brain refused to accept. 

So Jimmy ended up butchering lyrics until he wanted to bang his head into a fucking wall and forget Thomas Barrow’s name altogether. 

_“Oh”_ Jimmy heard Thomas’ whimper in his head, _“That hurt”_

Jimmy rubbed at his eyes irritably, pausing mid-piano chord to rest his head against the music stand for a moment. His trusty August Förster was more than forgiving- it would happily allow him a little cat nap if it helped him to play better. 

Behind him, the telltale sounds of Jack puttering around the studio broke Jimmy’s silent reverie. 

_“The soil was made for winners, the sea for them that lose- but I’d proudly be a swimmer to get across to you-“_ Jimmy broke off mid- verse, realizing even as he sang it just how pathetic it sounded. Thank god his eyes were closed- at least he couldn’t see Jack giving him a pathetic look.

“No bloody sense.” Jimmy mumbled into the ivories, resting his cheek against their cool scales, “Why can I write today? I can’t write any day- I can’t write period. Fuck me.” 

“Give it time, Jim.” Jack urged from the table, working on lyrics of his own; Jimmy could hear Jack’s pen scratching on the wood, “Inspiration’s like a tree. It’s not always in bloom.” 

Jimmy was about to declare that his tree was fucking rotted on the inside and someone should take an axe to him in kindness- but his snark was interrupted before it even began by a knock at the door. 

Jimmy sat up at his bench, looking around curious. Given the hour and day, it was difficult to say who could be calling. It was Sunday morning, the night after a swinging performance- and Jimmy knew for a fact that everyone else in their group was probably still sleeping off the booze from the night before. Most of the godless heathens that came knocking at their door were prone to do so in the later hours of the day. Partiers did not care for the morning hours... save for Jimmy who never slept (due to horrific nightmares) and Jack who… well…   
Jack was just Jack. You couldn’t tame the beast. 

“The beast" rose from his throne, a rickety old bar stool that he’d nicked after a set because he’d liked it so much, and crossed the dirty studio floor (kicking aside old magazines as he went) to answer the front door. He pulled it wide, bright sunlight casting a fine gleam on his dark skin and deep blue suit. 

"Can I help you?” Jack said, and Jimmy wouldn’t have given half a shit what came after until he heard an oddly familiar voice say _“I’m looking for Jimmy Kent.”_

Jimmy's first thought- a painfully stupid and sentimental thing- was that his visitor was none other than Thomas. The idea sent nervous jitters through his body, causing him to awkwardly clamber off the piano bench before realizing that the voice in the door could not possibly be Thomas because it was far too brassy and warm (not to mention featuring an Irish lilt). Jimmy had heard both of Thomas’ voices well enough to know him in a crowd- it was a smug, Stockport swing… cool and soft (very much like the keys of a beloved piano). 

So who the hell was at the door? 

Poking his head over Jack's shoulder, Jimmy was baffled to see Tom Branson standing in the shaded doorway of their studio. A brown fedora atop his head and a light coat over his shoulders, he'd clearly been taking a stroll despite the sweltering heat and had a light shine of perspiration upon his face which he mopped with the back of his hand. 

“Mr. Branson?" Jimmy demanded, agog. Jack stepped aside a little so that the two men could greet one another properly- but the question of the matter remained… why was Branson looking for him in London? 

And how the hell had Branson known where to find him? 

“Jimmy!” Branson stuck out his hand to shake; Jimmy accepted the grip at once, instantly trying to make his hold as firm and as masculine as possible. There was something incredibly rouge-ish about Branson, despite being a member of the family and to that effect a toff. “I hope I haven't shocked you too much.” 

“This is the berries." Jimmy said, for if it pulled him away from the atrocity that was his lyrics, he’d happily take Branson round for a spin, “But what’re you doing here?" 

“I’ll be happy to explain.” Branson said, taking off his fedora to better wipe at his forehead, “But I feel it might call for a pot of tea.” 

Jack was more than happy to put one on, despite the hot weather, and Branson looked ready to fall to his knees in thanks for the cool refuge of their practice studio as they shut the door to keep out the ungodly heat. They perched around a rickety table, Jack taking back up his stolen bar stool and Branson sitting down on an abused chair across from Jimmy who scooted aside old newspapers and ashtrays full of half finished cigarette butts. Jimmy didn’t smoke, not unless Thomas was around- but Jack smoked when he wrote. 

At least, he smoked until he got distracted- which was often. 

Such as it was, Jack struck up a cigarette as he put forth a pot of cooling tea- which Jimmy poured with all the air and grace of a refined first footman. It was almost a running gag in their group: 

_"There goes Jimmy, holding the door for the ladies- such a footman.”_

_“There goes Jimmy, pouring the tea just right- such a footman.”_

_“There goes Jimmy, drinking himself to sleep and sobbing over ironing- such a footman.”_

Branson accepted his cup, grateful for the cool drink as he took a long sip to wipe his brow one more time with the back of his hand. Jimmy found himself wondering why Branson did not have a handkerchief. 

_"There goes Jimmy, wondering why everyone doesn't have a handkerchief- such a footman.”_

“You’ll have to forgive me for intruding Jimmy-“ Mr. Branson said, “But I heard from Mrs. Hughes that you were working in a jazz band and I just had to come see for myself.” 

Jimmy smiled at the memory of Mrs. Hughes, wondering how she was getting on and if she’d acquired any more wrinkles since their last parting. There’d been an odd air about the woman- Jimmy was almost certain she hadn’t liked him. It had hardly bothered him one way or the other, but now that he looked back on it, he was quite certain the whole affair had had to do with Thomas. It was like Mrs. Hughes had disapproved of Jimmy for Thomas. But this was hardly confusing to Jimmy, because Jimmy knew himself best of all and wouldn’t begrudge his worst enemy to be saddled with him romantically. 

He was a right bastard, sure enough. What Thomas saw in him, he’d never know. He wasn’t entirely sure there was anything even there- if Thomas wasn’t just in love with what he thought he saw. Jimmy couldn’t see anyone loving him if they actually _knew_ him. 

“Jim’s got a real talent on the piano.” Jack answered when it became clear that Jimmy wasn’t going to, “His lyrics leave something to be desired, though." 

Jimmy sneered, though it was hardly a lie. 

“What can we help you with Mr. Branson?” Jimmy asked, relaxing back into his chair. 

“Well it’s…” Branson paused, his brow growing furrowed as he looked from Jack to Jimmy. He seemed quite unsure how to best begin. “It's a very delicate matter. And I’m unsure if Mr. Ross would be comfortable hearing me speak about it.” 

Jimmy was growing disturbed by the tension in Mr. Branson's voice.   
But then Jimmy thought of Thomas’ bare letters, and the battered state Jimmy had found him in six months ago after a round of electrocution. 

_Oh Christ,_ Jimmy thought with a sudden jolt of distress, _Please don’t say he’s gone and done it again. I’ll do me nut, I swear I will._

“There’s not much that shocks me, Mr. Branson. I’m a worldly man.” Jack declared, which was the understatement of the year seeing as Jack Ross had courted nearly every woman under the sun and then their mother. 

Mr. Branson seemed satisfied, his brow relaxing as he gave Jack an easy smile and sat back a little better in his chair. 

“It’s about Thomas Barrow, you see.” Branson said, though the smile he was wearing hardly declared it a medical emergency. 

Jimmy flushed, irritated that his intuition had been right; Jack caught sight of the band of color blooming across his face and rose up from his stolen bar stool, taking his tea and cigarette with him to saunter across the room. Suddenly his alto voice was filling the air along with his smoke, smooth and sweet- everything a mol wanted in her man: 

_“And if I ever had a friend I knew it in your touch; who’d have thought a man like me could ever love this much- the world keeps spinning ‘for the two us, give me some time and I’ll give you my trust-!”_ Jack changed the lyrics but kept the meaning clear, which just irritated Jimmy even more. He half turned in his chair, fixing Jack with a steely glare as he barked. 

“Shut up Jack!” 

Jack just kept humming, sniggering to himself as he went around the room collecting empty beer bottles from the night before. Elvira liked to make art with them, so Jack never truly threw them away. Instead he’d wash them one by one so that the kitchenette sink upstairs was utterly filled with beer bottles and made Jimmy look like a sordid alcoholic. Despite not being at the table nor truly present in the conversation, it was clear that Jack was listening in, and Jimmy knew why. 

Jack knew everything. 

When Jimmy had first arrived in their group, he’d been an oddly morbid chap, unable to shake the feeling of emptiness that hung over him. At first, he’d tried to swagger his troubles away. Had run after every women he could get his hands on till he was loaded with skirts and more problems than he had fingers. Apparently Clive, the prior pianist, had been a notorious womanizer too, and so Jack had drug Jimmy behind the studio one day after a rather wild set to warn him that he was treading on thin ice and to not test his patience. He’d probably been expecting a rant, for Jimmy to pop a screw and throw a fist (like Clive had done). 

Instead, drunk as a skunk, Jimmy had broken down and told Jack everything.   
Everything. 

Jack’s brother was a therapist, and though Jack had no medical degree to lay claim to he somehow likewise became the listening ear for every member of their group. It made no bloody sense, but it was comforting, and as Jimmy explained just why it was that he simply had to court women left and right, Jack had given him a rather pointed stare. 

And then thrown his head back and laughed. 

It hadn’t taken long after that; Jimmy had stopped going for women and had instead gone for booze, utterly miserable at the fact that despite no matter how many skirts he grabbed it still didn’t help him feel less empty inside. Elvira had been downright concerned; despite being Jack's mol and the mother of his child, she’d still always had a soft spot for Jimmy. Then it had all come out over a round of drinking one night, as Jack proceeded to sing a very ridiculous ballad of the _“Tenacious Thomas Barrow"_. 

Elvira and Hilda had been screaming by the end of it, the pair of them swearing they were going to take a train to Yorkshire as soon as the sun rose just to get a good look at Thomas- Jimmy had proceeded to get them so drunk they forgot the entire idea, and though he’d had a splitting headache come morning he’d thought himself very clever all the same. Percy and Fred hadn’t minded; Fred swore up and down he'd been kissed by a boy once though Percy kept ribbing him saying _“You're too ugly; a boy would never kiss you!”_

Jimmy didn't see what one had to do with the other, but it didn't bloody well matter because Jimmy didn't think about boys- didn't want to kiss boys- and frankly everyone had taken this joke just a tad bit too far. 

Jimmy was for the ladies. He knew this.   
He just had a soft spot for Thomas, that was all. 

“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Jimmy." Mr. Branson assured him, for Jimmy knew he was blushing scarlet. Jimmy just rolled his eyes, gesturing with a hand for Mr. Branson to bloody well continue so they could get this over with as fast as possible, damnit. 

Branson was starting to frown though, and Jimmy caught his eye as Branson sat up a little straighter in his chair. He wasn’t touching his tea. 

“He’s not doing well.” Branson admitted; Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of more electrocution. “Not at all. It’s killing him Jimmy. He’s a strong man but this facade is killing him. Being without you is killing him." 

Jimmy scoffed, turning away lest Branson see the expanding color upon his cheeks.   
Branson, like Jack, had the wrong idea. They all had the wrong idea, damnit. 

“You make it sound like all the answer lay in my hands.” Jimmy grumbled under his breath. He took a heavy gulp of tea. 

“They do.” Branson urged him; Jimmy just rolled his eyes, “Even if you don’t love him back-“ 

Jimmy choked on his tea, nearly spraying it across the table at such an open admission. Branson raised his hands up in defense at once, far too smart to miss the murderous look in Jimmy’s gleaming eyes, “I’ll have you know I profess no knowledge on that subject!" Branson urged. 

Jimmy seethed, teeth clenched. 

“All I’m saying is that even if you don't love him, I’m sure you at least care for him as a friend.” 

Jimmy sat his teacup down rather forcibly, looking away again as Jack continued to circle the perimeter of the room collecting beer bottles. Jimmy ground his teeth, wishing Branson would just give over, goddamnit! 

“It were more than that.” Jimmy snapped, unable to keep the hot edge out of his voice. Branson raised his hands again in clear defense till Jimmy stopped glaring and finally looked away again. 

To make it so casual, to just insist Thomas was his ‘friend’… that pissed Jimmy off more than to insist there was something more. 

Their hearts were old friends; it was more than friendship. It wasn’t love- Jimmy was for the ladies- but it was damn more for friendship. 

“He needs you Jimmy.” Branson murmured, “Badly.” 

“Well I could visit-“ Jimmy mumbled, to be fair Jack had been working him like mad- it wouldn’t be so tough to ask for time off now that he was a right member of their set. And one night away from the piano wouldn’t make Jack a poorer man. They could always find a stand in. Percy had sworn he was practicing, and though he didn’t have Jimmy’s natural talent he was still a damn good hand on the ivories. 

“You could, and I’m sure it would mean the world to him!” Branson agreed, and for a minute Jimmy though their visit was concluded until Branson carried on with that same tense voice, “But what if I could offer you more?” 

Jimmy quirked an eyebrow, not entirely sure he liked the direction this conversation was turning to. 

“Jimmy, I need a valet.” Branson sighed, quite exasperated at the whole situation, “I’m courting Lady Mary, if you’ll believe it-“ Jimmy scoffed loudly, trying to picture it in his head. “That's not exactly the easiest position for a man like me to be in-“ 

“A valet?” Jimmy demanded, “What are you asking me to be your valet?" 

Branson nodded, “You’re a stylish chap.” 

Jack let out a low cackle from the back of the room. If Jimmy had had a beer bottle, he would have chucked it at him. 

“I know nothing about being a valet!” Jimmy cried out, rather angry now. He liked playing piano and living in London. He liked drinking himself to death and writing shitty lyrics. He didn’t want to leave that behind again for Downton. For rules, for Carson, for quiet country living and being bored to tears. 

“You don’t have to!” Branson urged him, still quite optimistic though Jimmy’s hope was draining, “Thomas knows far too much for his own good. Ask him to help you, god only knows he’ll agree.” 

“His lordship won’t take me back on.” Jimmy shook his head, quite certain that road block would stop Branson for good. But Branson just quirked him a knowing smile. 

“After sleep with Lady Anstruther?” Branson surmised. Jimmy, mid sip of tea, nearly choked again as his eyes flew open. “I agree. He won’t.” 

How the hell did Branson know about that? 

Jimmy looked over his shoulder to find Jack looking at him with an impressed air. Jimmy seethed again, knowing he was in for a firm bollocking as soon as Branson left the room. Jack wouldn’t let it rest till he knew every detail. 

“But he’s not the one hiring you, Jimmy. I am." Branson explained, which made absolutely no sense to Jimmy at all till Branson said, "I'm the one offering this whole deal, out of my own pocket book. You’d work directly for me. You wouldn’t be under Carson’s supervision. You’d be your own man.” 

Downton without Carson’s supervision? Now things were getting interesting. Jimmy’s mouth quirked into a half smile without him even realizing it. 

“Robert- Lord Grantham-“ Branson added for clarification, “He couldn't deny me a valet, Jimmy. Not now when I’m courting Mary and she’s dragging me all over the country…. She’s not like Sybil.” Branson chuckled to himself at this, but his humor drained as he grew more pensive again, “My darling Sybil adored Thomas, you know?” Branson murmured, “Adored him. Said he was the _‘salt of the earth, if only he knew it.’_ ” 

Jimmy suddenly found himself remembering a dark night, when a babe had been born only to lose its mother a few hours later. 

He’d watched Thomas flee the servant’s hall- had been shocked to find the man in tears and being comforted by Anna Bates (when she’d never appeared to be on friendly terms with him). Thomas had been such a stoic sort- you couldn't really ruffle him even if you tried (and boy had Alfred tried)…. his grief had spoken well of Sybil. 

“I bet you’d agree.” Branson added. Jimmy flushed, looking away. 

_“Run, Jimmy!” Thomas had screamed, his strong arms jerking Jimmy right from the line of fire to fling him as far away as possible, “Run! Just leave it and run!”_

Jimmy looked down, suddenly quite uninterested in his tea. 

_“Oh,” Thomas whimpered in Jimmy’s arms, eyes black and swollen shut, “That hurt-“_

Jimmy shoved his teacup away, nearly knocked it over as he rubbed his brow. 

“…I’m sorry, I know this is difficult for you-“ Branson murmured.   
Jimmy threw up a hand to stop him mid sentence. 

He knew what he wanted to do. What, in a way, he had to do. In the same effect that he had forsworn his friendship to Thomas after that fight in Thirsk, Jimmy now felt utterly compelled to return to Downton even if only for a small bit to ensure that Thomas was alright. To help him gather himself. 

Because Thomas loved Jimmy- and no one had ever loved Jimmy. Not truly. Not fully.   
Even his own family. 

Jimmy sighed, fixing Branson with as blank a stare as possible. Jimmy noticed Jack hanging back near the piano, a straw basket that usually held rubbish now full of beer bottles in his hands. 

Jack was watching, waiting. 

“Give me time to think it over?” Jimmy asked. Branson was more than agreeing. 

“Of course.” Branson assured him, “I’m staying at the club, here let me give you the address-“ Branson paused, pulling out a gold tipped pen from his vest pocket to search on his person for a sheet of paper. He found it lacking, and instead using a torn piece of an old rag on the Dare sisters to write down an address in Parliament square. Jimmy was far from impressed, having already suspected the club was near the House of Lords. Rich people were never satisfied until they were all squashed in on one another. “I’ll be there until midday tomorrow. If you want to reach me, I’ll be waiting.” 

And with that, Branson put back on his fedora. 

Jack was quick to shake Branson’s hand, and as Branson tipped his hat to Jack to make his way out the door and back into the garish sun, Jack shut the door behind him to turn and give Jimmy a most menacing grin. 

“Don’t start.” Jimmy muttered, looking away to hide the band of color on his face. 

“Oh buddy-“ Jack just cackled, retaking his seat at the table on his stolen bar stool to pour both himself and Jimmy another cup of tea. This time, Jack added a healthy dose of whiskey from a pewter pocket flask to each cup- Jimmy took his at once to drain it. Despite the heat of the day, the whiskey felt good burning down his throat. “We’re already started.” 

“Funny seeing members from their lot.” Jack commented idly as Jimmy sulked over his whiskey and tea, “Last time I was talking to a Crawley it was Lady Mary." 

"She's a right sort-" Jimmy muttered bitterly, eyes hooded at the memory of a woman with woven brown hair and eyes like iron. She’d been a hard boiled egg. 

“A stone cold bitch, I'm sure." Jack said sympathetically, “But she’s got her heart in the right place; I'm willing to bet most people say Thomas is cold too.” 

Jimmy scowled at the memory of Carson, Bates, Moseley, and everyone else under the sun looking at Thomas like he was trash. As if they had the fucking right. It hadn’t bothered Thomas a bit- but Jimmy had been more than riled up about it. 

“See, I was in love with Lady Rose-" Jack said, which hardly surprised Jimmy at all, seeing as Jack had probably dated more women than Jimmy himself, “I was going to marry Lady Rose.” 

That surprised Jimmy plenty, seeing as Jack had reservations about marrying Elvira and they were practically soul mates. 

“Course Rose told Mary, and Mary came storming up here to tell me off.” Jack laughed. Jimmy grimaced at the concept. 

“Cor.” He muttered under his breath, though that hardly summed it up. 

“I wasn't afraid of Mary, nor of society.” Jack assured him, “But I knew that Rose was doing it out of a need to fight the system. Not because she loved me. I think she cared for me deeply, but she cared about angering her mother more.” 

He added more whiskey to Jimmy’s cup, though there was hardly any tea left in it. Jimmy drank it all the same. 

“But I tell you what, Jim. If she’d cared for me, I would have stayed with her forever…” Jack said wistfully, staring off into space as he conjured up the image of a ghost in his mind, “I loved that girl.” 

Jimmy just shook his head. He doubted he had the vocabulary to conjure up just how he felt in that moment. He supposed, if pressed, he might say _‘bloody buggering fucked up’_. 

But even that was unsatisfying. 

“You’ve got two options before you Jim.” Jack said, with the same pointed tone that he used when directing their band about a set to please a crowd, “You can either sit here sulking and drinking all your life, or you can get out there and live.” 

“It’s not that easy-“ Jimmy waved off. Jack overrode him. 

“It is Jim. It really is.” Jack would hear none of his excuses. Jimmy sulked into his drained teacup wishing Jack would put more whiskey in it. Jack refused, his eyes locked on Jimmy’s despite how Jimmy tried to avoid him. Jimmy scratched at his blonde curls, sighing wistfully as Jack raised a fine black eyebrow in slightest irritation. 

“Do you love him?” Jack asked. Jimmy blushed a hot pink at once. 

They'd asked him this question before.   
Jimmy always hated it when they did. 

“Would you stop bloody asking me that?” Jimmy snapped. “Y’sound bloody ridicu-“ 

“He needs you, Jimmy.” Jack said, once again over riding him before he could give an excuse, “He needs you and he loves you. You’re always talking about being a man, about what it takes to be a man… this is what men do. What real men do. When the ones who love them are in pain, they help them.” 

“But I’m not like that-!” Jimmy denied plaintively. The very thought of helping Thomas in such a manner put a wild spin in his head- made him feel like he’d drank too much whiskey or took a stab at Elvira’s absinthe again (god had that been a wild night). 

“It’s not about being _like_ anything.” Jack snapped. Jimmy shut his mouth at once.   
Jack always had a way of saying things and them making sense. Maybe it was because he was so good with lyrics. 

“It’s about being in love.” Jack corrected him. Jimmy swallowed and looked away, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. 

Christ he needed more whiskey. 

“If you love him, you will go to him.” Jack said. “Cor, Jim- What if he dies?” Jack demanded in a truly unnerving tone of foreshadowing. 

The very idea put ice in his stomach, made him feel weak at the knees.   
If Thomas died- died for electrocution or courting bloody Daisy Mason while Jimmy was here in London drinking whiskey and writing shitty lyrics- Jimmy couldn’t bear the shame of the thought. The horrible, guilt raising shame. 

“Will you ever be able to forgive yourself? Answer me truthfully." Jack commanded, waiting patiently as Jimmy bowed his head. 

But Jimmy didn’t even have to think. 

“No.” Jimmy whispered into his lap, sighing as Jack resituated himself a little bit better on his bar stool. 

“Then you know what you have to do.” Jack urged. “Be a man. Make it right." 

“But- what if everything falls apart again?” Jimmy demanded, “I was homeless for weeks last time- I don't want to give this up! I love playing in your band! I love living here- this is the life I always wanted-“ 

“Is it?” Jack challenged, quirking an eyebrow again, “Because you’ve been a right mess for a while now, drinking yourself silly." 

Jimmy flushed, looking back down at his lap again for shame. 

“I promise you, if things go pear shaped and you get turned out again… you can always come home here." Jack said. 

Jimmy swallowed, suddenly feeling much more at ease knowing that he had a plan B. He was, after all, contra mundi. No one was going to look out for him if he did not look after himself. 

“Can I tell you what I think?” Jack asked, and despite being a rather commanding man with an air of unchallengeable authority, he suddenly spoke very soft as if Jimmy had the option to turn him down. Jimmy swallowed, nodding. 

“I think you love him." Jack murmured. Jimmy rubbed his brow rather viciously, desperate to block out Jack’s voice, “I think you're scared loving him will make you less of a man. I think you've forgotten that love does not deplete a man. That love uplifts a man. And that Thomas Barrow might be a shirt lifter, but he’s also a log lifter. You can’t tell me a man with arms like that throws a weak punch-“ 

Jimmy made the tiniest noise of agreement. He’d seen Thomas out of uniform- there was no denying the man had muscle strength. He could probably break someone’s neck if he wanted to. 

“Only you know the truth." Jack concluded, “Only you know if you really love him.” 

Jimmy took a moment to compose himself; Jack always had a way of making him feel undone. Jack was pure bottled honesty- a straight glass of gin and no mistake. You couldn’t handle Jack if you lived in lies. 

“I don’t know how I feel.” Jimmy admitted, perhaps one of the most honest things he’d ever said to Jack. Jack did not seem miffed, merely nodding as he finally- _finally_ \- poured a little more whiskey in Jimmy’s cup. He drank it with shaking hands. 

“Then go find out.” Jack declared.   
And that was that. 

 

~*~

Down time downstairs was a rare treat indeed, and when everyone was gathered in the servant’s hall together it made Downton feel less like a workspace and more like a home. 

It was a humid summer’s afternoon, and preparations for dinner were soon to be undertaken. As it stood, there was no real demand or need from the family above, and so everyone sat milling about waiting for their next task while the hour ticked closer to four. Andy was at the piano, tiddling away much to the pleasure of everyone listening. He didn’t have Jimmy’s flair (no one had Jimmy’s flair) but it was a nice filler, and Anna tapped her shoe while humming under her breath. She darned lace alongside Phyllis- the pair of them were spinning collars like spiders. John sat on Anna’s other side, mending the cuff of one of his Lordship’s riding jackets while Moseley read a newspaper article and sipped a cup of tea. Daisy had laid a spread out for them, simple but filling, and everyone had taken a biscuit by this point save for Thomas who merely sat at the table working on inventory for Mrs. Hughes wedding while Daisy took the chair next to him and bugged him senseless. She was worse than Margret sometimes. 

“Oh I wish you’d cheer up…” Daisy soothed; she reached out to put her hand on Thomas’ arm, toying with the cuff of his serving jacket as Thomas continued to write with her christmas pen, “I’d do anything to get you to smile again.” 

“Anything?” Thomas grumbled under his breath; he flashed her a small smile to save face. 

He highly doubted that there was ‘anything’ to be done anymore, by Daisy or otherwise. 

“Anything.” Daisy repeated, and at this she scooted her chair closer so that they were elbow to elbow. A ray of sunlight landed on Daisy’s hair comb, making it twinkle in an amber sheen. “You work too much.” 

“Mrs. Hughes is going to have a glorious wedding.” Thomas would not be put off; he flipped the page of his inventory to compare a side list with Lady Mary’s wedding to Mathew Crawley. Christ that felt like twenty years ago. “I won’t be put off.” Her warned her. 

Daisy gave him a cheeky grin, delighted by his antics. 

“If it’s good enough for Lady Mary, it’s good enough for Elsie Hughes.” Thomas flipped the page back to his first inventory, scribbling down three glass punch bowls. 

“Carriage and all?” 

“With six white horses to pull it along.” 

“And a guard of the king’s men?” 

“Twenty at least.” 

Daisy tittered, and she was not the only one. Anna was smiling outright, and Moseley was nodding in agreement. It seemed that everyone was of the same mindset… Elsie Hughes was overdue for her due. 

“And what about my wedding?” Daisy asked, “Do I get horses and king’s men?”   
Thomas’ heart no longer skipped a beat. He did not feel fright anymore at the thought of marrying Daisy, only misery. He gave her the best smile he could muster, though it was a tiny thing, and simply said, “You get Buckingham palace.” 

It sounded like the sort of thing he ought to say. Daisy blushed, batting her eyelash as him as she leaned into his arm and murmured, “Don’t be so soft” into his ear. 

“She’s right though.” Andy spoke up from the piano, looking wistfully over at Daisy who was still latched firmly onto Thomas’ arm. “You work too much. Ever since I got here all you do is work. You don’t even take half days.” 

“And what would I do with my half days, Mr. Parker?” Thomas grumbled, flipping his inventory back a page to check the old list again. They wouldn’t be able to feasibly get away with using the very best silver, but Thomas would push hard for the second best set that was usually reserved for priority company and distant family. 

“I dunno!” Andy grumbled, his piano tune catching a bit as he plonked his large fingers down a little too hard on the keys, “Take Daisy out, go see a picture, smile, laugh, gamble on ponies!” 

_Oh yes, that’s a good idea, put Daisy in a darkened room with me full of people looking away and see how long it takes for her to worm her lips onto mine._ Thomas thought darkly. 

“I’m not a gambling man.” Thomas said; no he most certainly was not putting himself willingly into a dark room with Daisy. 

“And more fool you for it!” Andy warned from the piano, “You raked in the cash on that pontoon table.” 

Thomas grinned fondly at the memory of that night.   
He’d seen Jimmy Kent in a park.   
That had been a good night. 

“You need to loosen up a bit!” Andy carried on, his tune getting more saucy. Daisy was tapping her fingers onto the table now, keeping the beat, “You ought to take Daisy out dancing!” 

Daisy sucked in a little breath of delight at the thought. Thomas caught her eye. She was gleaming at him, sparkling with hope. 

God she was so easy to read. 

“Would you like that?” Thomas said, though he damn well already knew her answer. 

“I’d love it!” She gushed. Thomas went back to his inventory, keen to drop the subject as soon as possible. He had no energy to dance. 

“Would you like it?” John spoke up from across the way. Thomas looked up again, flashing him the tiniest smile. John raised an eyebrow in knowing, eyes flickering back from Daisy’s face to Thomas’. “I never took you for a dancing man.” 

_Thank you, John._ Thomas wanted to say, _Thank you for trying to save me._

“I think you’re forgetting when he danced with me the first time, Mr. Bates!” Daisy’s voice took a coy edge as she nudged Thomas with her elbow again. Thomas winced a little at the memory. 

“Daisy, he only did that to irritate William.” John warned her. Thomas nodded, smirking in spite of himself, recalling how William had turned white, then green, then bright red all in quick succession. 

What a sop. 

“You owe me an actual dance.” At this Daisy nudged him again in the ribs. Thomas winced, wishing she’d quit. 

“Course, you were a younger man then.” John added. Thomas’ attention snapped off of Daisy’s jibbing to John’s leer in a heartbeat. He cocked his head quizzically, “You probably don’t even have it in you now.” 

_Are you calling me old, you sad sack of potatoes?_ Thomas thought, looking from John to Daisy to Andy who was still on the piano. 

Thomas jerked out of his chair, Daisy’s hand sliding off his arm as he went.   
Miserable and depressed he may be. Old and legless he was not. 

“Spin us a tune, Andy.” Thomas snapped. Daisy gave another hiccup of delight, her eyes widening as Thomas shoved his chair back into the table. John gave a round of irritated huffs, his eyes conveying his unspoken sentence loud and clear: _“Thomas that wasn’t a challenge.”_

“Alright, what are you looking for.” Andy said, spinning back around on the piano bench and cracking his fingers with a boyish grin latched firmly in place. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Thomas said, and at this he extended a hand to Daisy with his eyes firmly latched onto John’s, “I can dance to anything.” 

John scoffed and buried his face in his hand. 

Daisy stood up at once, pushing back in her chair, her hands shaking at her sides as she looked eagerly to Andy for a tune. 

“What’ll it be, Daisy?” Thomas asked.   
It was only polite, after all. To get her opinion. 

“The Foxtrot!” Daisy urged. Thomas took her into his arms at once; she latched onto his arm and hand with delight as he took her by the hand and waist. 

“I’ll do you one better.” Thomas flashed her a coy smile. “How about the Foxtrot Promenade.” 

He’d learned this dancing one night at the Criterion with a huge slew of young men, all of whom had been utterly sauced. A few had spun Thomas around on the floor all night (he was certain he’d caused a fight between two of them; they’d been bickering over who could dance with him next). In the end, he’d danced with a sailor home from abroad whose arm muscles had been thrilling to run his hands over. 

They’d felt even better when Thomas had been pressed into the wall of the backroom, encasing him in a cage of muscle as his mouth was plundered raw. 

 

Andy started up a tune. Thomas new it well: _Titsy Bitsy Girl._

Round and round they went in the encased space between table and dish cabinet. Daisy couldn’t keep from giggling, a stray laugh flying from her mouth in sheer delight as Thomas glided her back and forth. He hadn’t danced in ages (frankly couldn’t remember when the last time had been) but that didn’t matter. Dancing to him was easy, natural… had he been a woman he’d have gone into ballet. 

“Told you!” Andy called out over the jaunty whirling tune, “Loosen up! Take some years off you, old man! You could be someone’s uncle!” And at their private joke Andy let out a spew of boyish laughter. 

“Shut up, Andy!” Thomas barked over his shoulder, taking his eyes off Daisy for one minute to bark at Andy who was still cackling, “That was one time six months ago! And I was squiffy!” 

“I’m never going to let you live it down!” Andy cackled, head thrown back even as he played, “Uncle Thomas!” 

“What’s he talking about?” Daisy asked, utterly confused. 

“Nothing, he’s mad, love-“ Thomas said, and to keep her from asking any more awkward questions Thomas took her under his arm and spun her tight. Daisy let out a cry of joy. 

Thomas was so focused on dancing, so determined to keep Daisy going and in line with Andy’s piano tune that he did not notice someone walking into the room. 

Did not see Anna gasp and grab John’s arm in delight. Did not see John look over his shoulder, curious, only to break into an enormous grin. 

Did not realize who was watching him, leaning jauntily against the back wall of the servant’s hall until Thomas took Daisy by the waist and lifted her right up to twirl her- 

As Daisy was lifted into the air, Thomas’ eyes left her face for one second to latch onto the first person he saw. 

Jimmy Kent was wearing his fucking blue vest again, grinning with coy amusement as he watched Thomas spin Daisy about the room. 

_Christ_ , Thomas thought in terror, _I’ve fucking cracked. I’m hallucinating now_. 

He dropped Daisy at once, and in an a last minute attempt to keep her from falling over he caught her hard only to throw himself off balance. He nearly fell into the table, crashing into the chairs so that there was suddenly an enormous clatter as Thomas threw out one hand to catch himself and kept one hand firmly about Daisy’s stomach so as to put her as far from harm as possible. Andy threw his hands off the piano, grabbing Daisy’s arm so that she did not teeter off balance in her surprise. 

“Woah!” Andy called out, “What the hell was that, Thomas? You nearly fell of kilter!” 

But Thomas wasn’t looking at Daisy, wasn’t hearing Andy.   
His eyes were latched across the room, to this odd little hallucination against the back wall. This lovely image of Jimmy Kent in his blue vest and dark newscap. Where had it come from? Was it a sign from god? Was it just his depraved brain finally clocking in two? Had Thomas taken ill, and was now suffering from a fever? 

Jimmy just smiled, as if he’d been waiting a very long time to see Thomas.   
As if they were the only two in the room.   
Thomas flushed, gaping out of breath. 

“Whose this?” Andy asked, gesturing to Jimmy against the back wall, and it suddenly hit Thomas full fucking force that Jimmy was not a hallucination and was standing _in the servant’s hall._

_My god._ Thomas could not hold an adequate breath, _What the hell is happening today?_

Daisy still had her hand upon his arm, but Thomas could not feel it any more. As sorry as he was to admit it, Daisy simply didn’t exist when Jimmy was in the room. 

“Jimmy Kent.” Jimmy introduced himself to Andy with a nod of the head; his golden curls flashed over his eyes, “At your service.” 

Thomas sucked in a breath, much like the one Daisy had taken when Thomas had asked her to dance. Jimmy caught his eye again, once more smiling at him in such a solitary way that Thomas couldn’t remember to breath. 

_This must be my reward for the past sixth months, Thomas hysterical brain deduced. Yes, that’s it. This is a gift for my dark days. Thank you, to all the saints of heaven. I couldn’t have asked for a more thoughtful present. And it’s not even me birthday!_

“Ah.” The click of heels upon the stone did not jar Thomas from his reverie, but Mrs. Hughes addressing Jimmy as if this were all planned certainly did, “Mr. Kent, I trust Mr. Branson has informed you of the situation.” 

That was right! Lady Rose’ jazz party. Thomas almost had forgotten.   
But wait, wasn’t Lady Rose leaving for America soon? Thomas couldn’t keep these facts straight anymore. 

Oh, who gave a flying shit. 

“He has.” Jimmy took off his newscap to tuck it safely under his arm. 

“We’ll move you back into your old room.” Mrs. Hughes toyed with her keys upon her hip, giving Jimmy a faint knowing smile as she looked him up and down, “You’re not under Mr. Carson’s jurisdiction, but it do to have you in a cottage when you’re only by yourself.” 

“No, I’ll be fine in me old room.” Jimmy assured her, and with that she whisked away presumably to fetch a maid for cleaning. 

Jimmy turned back around, and once more his eyes latched onto Thomas’. 

“… Thomas.” Jimmy said.   
His name upon Jimmy’s lips was too much for Thomas to bear. He swallowed several times before coughing and carrying on. His throat was so pinched he feared he might not be able to speak. 

“where’s the rest of the band?” Thomas asked, for surely Jack Ross would be walking through the door at any moment. 

“In London, probably.” Jimmy shrugged, leaning back against the wall to run a hand absently through his hair, “That’s where I left them.” 

But that made absolutely no sense. Lady Rose couldn’t have a jazz party with just a pianist. Thomas, on the other hand, could have a smashing party. Just he, Jimmy, and a piano. But that was neither here nor there. Jimmy couldn’t do such a job by himself. He needed his band! 

“Lady Rose just wanted one man for her party?” Thomas asked, his lips beginning to twitch upward even in spite of himself. Jimmy just kept smiling pleasantly, his beautiful blue eyes were locked on Thomas is they were the only two in the room. 

“I’m not here for Lady Rose.” Jimmy corrected. 

“No?” Thomas’ voice rose upward in insinuation. 

“No.” Jimmy replied softy with a small shake of the head. The entire time, his eyes did not leave Thomas’ face. 

“Why are you here?” Daisy asked from Thomas’ side, startling him so that he nearly jumped as she snapped him from his reverie. She was delighted to see Jimmy again, beaming as she re-fixed her hair comb better against her braids. 

“I’m the new valet for Mr. Branson.” Jimmy explained. “He’s hired me on himself.” 

Thomas let out a tiny sound of pathetic relief, a bubble of amazement that could hardly be broken upon the air for how soft and sweet it was. Valet? _Valet?_ Jimmy a valet? But- Branson was staying on at Downton, permanently if his courtship with Lady Mary worked out- that meant Jimmy would be staying at Downton too. 

Oh Thomas was ready to get up on the table and sing for the joy he felt. He was beaming, he knew it now, teeth showing as he let out one tiny breath after another. He’d not felt such joy, such elation in months. Good god, he’d forgotten he even _could_ feel happy anymore. But he was certainly happy now as Hughes gave Jimmy a small but warm smile to declare, “And Mr. Carson won’t be happy about it.” 

“He doesn’t have to be.” John declared, rising up from his seat with slight difficulty as he hobbled across the floor and warmly shook Jimmy’s hand. Clearly he’d forgotten the last time Jimmy had seen him, Jimmy had called him a ‘ruddy cripple that was full of shit’. Jimmy was startled by the handshake, looking from Thomas to John as if to say _‘The hell is he on about?’_

Thomas almost laughed for his glee. 

“We’ve missed you Jimmy- Mr. Kent, now.” 

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Bates-“ Jimmy said though he certainly didn’t sound like he meant it. John was hardly ruffled, “Mrs. Bates.” Jimmy added over John’s shoulder as Anna rose out of her chair to stand behind John with a smile. “I hope my letter was of use?” 

“More than you know, Jimmy.” Anna said, and there was a sweet softness in her voice as she too shook his hand. Jimmy’s smile became more relaxed, less forced. “And thank you for it. Mr. Kent-“ She added with coy delight, “It’ll be odd to call you Mr. Kent.” 

“Jimmy’s fine down here.” Jimmy assured her. Anna just smiled knowingly. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Mr. Carson’s booming voice interrupted the heavenly tranquility of the servant’s hall as he rounded the corner to survey them all with a beady eye, “I need the inventory- what are you doing here?!” Carson demanded, affronted as his eyes fell on Jimmy. Jimmy cocked an eyebrow, far from ruffled as he shucked his hands in his pockets and gave Mr. Carson the wariest of smiles. 

“Mr. Carson.” Jimmy greeted him. Carson did not return to gesture. 

“Mr. Branson has hired on his own personal valet, now that he’s courting Lady Mary-“ Mrs. Hughes explained. Carson’s expression turned more sour by the word, “He wanted Mr. Kent.” 

“He what?!” Carson demanded, thunderstruck. Jimmy just smiled. 

“That was Mr. Branson’s wish.” Jimmy said with a nonchalant shrug. Carson let out a slew of noises, each more angered and disgusted than the last. 

“Oh- oho! Mr. Branson’s wish was it?!” Carson snarled, turning on his heel to storm back up the hall, inventory needs clearly forgotten. “We’ll see about this!” But he was already gone, headed off to god knows where on the Devil’s errand and as Jimmy looked back around and grinned sheepishly at Thomas. 

_Oh go on, you cheeky devil._ Thomas thought with glee. 

“Cor, this is turning out to be prime entertainment.” Andy declared in amazement from where he still stood at the piano, “I’ve never seen Mr. Carson so angry!” 

Moseley had abandoned his tea and newspaper at the sound of Carson’s anger, and though he’d yet to shake Jimmy’s hand he still looked pleased to see him as he gave Jimmy a merry hello. 

“Do you have any experience valeting, Mr. Kent?” Moseley asked. Jimmy just shrugged, hardly miffed either way. 

“Well I’m sure Mr. Barrow can help me out if I run into any snags.” Jimmy shot Thomas a small smile. Thomas immediately returned it. 

Oh he’d absolutely help Jimmy. He’d help Jimmy till his fingers bled and his eyes ached. 

“I’m sure he can.” Mrs. Hughes agreed, giving Thomas a knowing smile as she watched Thomas’ eyes dance all over Jimmy’s face. 

Valet. _Valet._

“…Valet.” Thomas repeated the word with care- the answer to his misery. The solution in the sorrowful soup. Valet. 

“Valet.” Jimmy repeated, perhaps understanding just how deeply affected Thomas was by all of this from the way he continuously smiled. 

“Why on earth-“ Thomas choked out, though he could hardly be bothered to care, “does Mr. Branson want a valet?” 

“Says he needs one.” Jimmy said; Thomas couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all. To imagine, his miracle would come in the form of Tom Branson, “I dunno what for, but I figure we’ll find out.” 

“But…” Thomas stuttered, his mind suddenly racing as he considered the entire career change. From footman, to jazz musician, to valet- Jimmy’s talents were endless. Still it was hardly a menial task! “There’s so much to know! How to care for clothes-“ 

“Well I can sew a button on.” Jimmy shrugged, still unconcerned. 

Thomas burst out laughing, in spite of himself. 

It had been six months since he’d laughed. Six months in an absolute miserable hell, wafting around in a cloud of gloom shaded in Daisy’s perfume and the disappearing snows of winter. He’d given up hope, he’d given up love, but here both were back to smack him in the face as Jimmy Kent returned and became a valet without a clue as to what a valet was. Thomas laughed and laughed, hardly believing himself for his luck. 

He tried desperately to stop himself, putting a hand over his mouth as he quieted down only to sputter into anther peel of laughter again. Jimmy was just smiling him, watching him from across the room with a look of smug contentment on his face. 

John and Mrs. Hughes looked downright triumphant; Anna, relieved. Phyllis had yet to rise out of her chair, but she’d set her lace down in her lap to beam at Thomas as he still continued to snicker. 

“My god.” Phyllis declared with soft praise, “The dead have risen.” 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in months.” Daisy said, quite amazed by the sudden turn about by events. She reached out to touch his arm, but Thomas did not feel her hands. He was mute to all presence save for Jimmy, who captivated him body and soul till nothing was left but joy. 

“I dare say you needed that laugh.” John said, quite smug. 

“I have me charms.” Jimmy shrugged. Thomas felt so dizzy from joy, he thought he might faint. 

The minute he was Tom Branson, he was going to kiss him. He was going to dip him, just as he’d dipped Daisy only a few minutes ago, and kiss him full on the lips. That Irish Mick wouldn’t know what hit him. 

But suddenly Carson was back, fuming with high spots of bright color on his cheeks and jowls. He cut the laugh short in his throat, and suddenly the terror was back as Thomas realized that there was still one final barrier to hurdle if he ever wanted to be happy again. 

And at this point, Thomas didn't even have a leg to stand on. 

“Mr. Kent,” Carson spat the name as if wishing it could be erased from the earth entirely, “If you will be so good as to follow me. Mr. Barrow, you too-!” Carson added angrily, and for the first time in months he was looking at Thomas with the same livid air that Thomas had had to contend with before he’d gone to war. 

Daisy was startled at all the tension, reaching up to touch Thomas’ arm as if hoping he might turn and explain everything to her. But Thomas couldn’t focus on Daisy right now; Thomas had to focus on Jimmy. Had to save Jimmy. Jimmy was watching him from across the room, blond curled fringe falling in front of his light blue eyes as he waited to see what Thomas would do. 

But Thomas wasn’t the only one watching it all unfold; wasn’t the only one with stakes in the game. 

“If you don't mind Mr. Carson, I’ll be butting into this conversation.” John suddenly proclaimed. Jimmy raised an eyebrow as John hobbled past, still looking quite confused as to why John was now taking up their cross when he’d never done so before. 

“And why is that, Mr. Bates?” Carson demanded, too angry to keep from snapping at John despite hardly having a quarrel with him. 

“To keep it from happening.” John said breezily, hobbling down the hallway towards Carson’s office. Carson huffed, turning on his heel and storming out with a quick jerk of the hand towards Thomas and Jimmy both. The last time Carson had been this angry with Thomas, it had been the fall of 1920... 

Thomas swallowed at the bleak memory, his legs almost shaking as he rounded the table to join Jimmy on the other side. For a moment they simply stood side by side, observing each other. 

Jimmy offered him the smallest smile. To Thomas, it meant the world.   
It was all he had, it was all he needed- 

_“Now!”_ Carson snarled from down the hallway, jerking them both from their revery. 

Thomas went first, Jimmy following behind them.   
The entire servant's hall watched in their wake. 

~*~

“I don’t need to tell you that this is a disgusting offense against my office!” Carson bellowed at Branson, spitting in rage as the former Irish chauffeur stood at his full height and puffed up his chest with pride. It was the four of them against Carson, John at Thomas’s side and Jimmy on the other as Branson stood in front of them all and took the brunt of the beating- Thomas could not remember even being so damn grateful for Branson, ever liking him so much. 

Suddenly he found himself approving of Branson, realizing why it was that Lady Sybil had been so smitten with him. Branson was a damn knight in shining armor. They ought to erect statues to him. Thomas would foot the bill himself. 

“To go behind my back!” Carson snarled, “To usurp my power! Hardly befitting manners for anyone daring to court a Lady of this house! More like the actions of an boorish Irish chauffeur!" 

“I don’t find the title of Irish or chauffeur an insult, Mr. Carson-“ Branson’s tone was hot with barely suppressed rage. “So if that’s what you’re aiming for, I’ll say that you’ve missed your mark.” 

Thomas suddenly wanted to sing the Irish national anthem- hell he’d wear the nation’s flag if it gave Branson any pleasure. 

“If I’m to court Lady Mary, if I’m to stand any chance in her world, I need a valet. I wanted one that knew the house well, that would case as little disruption as possible-“ 

“And so you chose this cad?!” Carson demanded, outraged as he gestured a rude hand at Jimmy. Jimmy bristled, beautiful blue eyes narrowing in distaste, “Who disturbs everyone!?” 

“He is not a cad!” Thomas shot Carson down at once. He wouldn’t have such talk before him- Carson was giving him a murderous look, ready to break his neck at the next outburst, but as far as Thomas was concerned he’d reached the end of his damn line where Carson was concerned. 

They would always fight over Jimmy, and that was fine.

“Mr. Carson, you are the only one who is disturbed.” John added; a wise observation. 

“A poor sign in our personal priorities if I am the only line in the sand!” Carson slammed his hand on the desk, making the ink pot rattle in its pewter stand, “Where are your morals, Mr. Bates?!" 

“I believe in Jimmy's abilities.” John said, hardly rattled. 

“As do I.” Branson backed at once, proud as ever. 

“Do you have any experience as a valet at all-" Carson sneered at Jimmy, "Or did you merely sleep with Lord Anstruther-“ 

Thomas popped a screw, his mouth flying off the handle before anyone could stop him; he was livid! 

“You can insult anyone else all you like, but I won’t let you insult him!” Thomas shouted, his voice so loud that he could surely be heard out the door and down the hall. He didn’t care- let the whole house crash down around his ears as far as he was concerned. Carson was irate by this point, “He’s a fine valet in the making, and everyone in this house used to be standing at attention! When Mr. Bates started he had no experience and you took him on well enough- and he had a limp!” 

John looked at him with dry irritation, perhaps miffed that Thomas had pulled the 'cripple' card. Thomas didn’t give a damn. 

“What Mr. Bates lacked in experience, he made up for in tact and grace!” Carson bellowed. Thomas’ fists were beginning to ball up, his eyes widening as a million hot, ugly words reeled around in his brain, “Two qualities Kent has never possessed!” 

“He has always possessed them!” Thomas bellowed back, “You’ve just been too blind to see them!” 

“Whether he possess them or not-!” Branson cut them both off before they could shout the whole house down, “It’s of no consequence! I’ve hired him on. He’s my valet. I won’t be changing my mind nor taking on any other!” 

“And what does his lordship have to say about this?!” Carson demanded, “Or have you forgotten about the true master of this house in your fervent desire to have your way?!” 

“Jimmy’s not under Robert’s jurisdiction! He’s not under yours either!” Branson pointed a vindictive finger; Carson was swelling with a second round of rage, “He’s under mine! If Robert has a problem with Jimmy, he can take it up with me! And so can you-!” 

Carson was ready to take up a damn sword and skewer Branson with it; Thomas was more than ready to dive between them both, eager to throw himself on the spike if it kept Jimmy in the house and Branson out of the line of fire. John, though, was far too sensible for the bloodshed. 

Which was saying something since John had been convicted of murder. 

“Mr. Carson-“ John’s voice was growing haggard with exhaustion at the whole song and dance, “I don't think this is nearly as big of a problem as you make it out to be; everyone in this room has made mistakes in their life- including you. Jimmy made a mistake, we shouldn’t judge him eternally for it-" 

“Shouldn't we?!” Carson demanded at once. John gave him a dry look, “This boorish behavior is a prime example of why Kent should never be allowed back on our staff! Even the most obsolete of our errors do not so besmirch his lordship’s noble house-!” 

“He’s not alone!” 

Three sets of eyes fell on Thomas, who suddenly found himself wondering just what on earth he was doing even as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Carson’s temper, which had before simply been hot and hurling was now bottling up with a terrible cold feeling as Thomas’ final secret (his most dangerous secret) came under light. 

Branson’s eyes were wide with knowing. John, however, seemed to be putting two and two together though Thomas couldn't see how. 

John had no way of knowing about Philip. None of them could possibly know- 

“What do you mean?” Carson growled, his voice quite dangerous in its insinuation of what should happen if Thomas said one more word to the prior admission. 

“He’s not the first servant to sleep with a member of the nobility.” Thomas snapped. Carson looked slightly relieved all of a sudden, a bit of the coldness draining from his voice. 

“He is in this house-!” Carson said, opening his mouth once more to carry back on with John, but Thomas cut across again (god help him). 

“He’s not.” 

Once again, Carson's eyes were locked on his own; Thomas found his heart pounding in his chest, the color slowly draining from his face as Carson rose out of his chair to stand up at his full menacing height. 

Branson ran a hand through his hair, looking decidedly over his head. John closed his eyes, bowing his head as he let out a tiny sigh. 

Jimmy, hidden behind Thomas, took one small step forward. It was as if Jimmy wanted to be side by side with him. To be the first one to hear the final secret before Carson had a chance to- or perhaps he just wanted to stop Thomas. To keep him from making a massive error for his sake alone. 

But it could never be an error if it kept Jimmy out from under the gun. Thomas believed this firmly.

“What do you mean by that Mr. Barrow?" Carson growled, that dangerous tone back, “Is there something I ought to know about you? I warn you-!” He added as Thomas opened his mouth, heart hammering in his throat, “I’ve put up with a great deal on your behalf, and you’ve made great strides in your character as of late-“ 

_You mean I’ve been miserable, to your liking,_ Thomas thought viciously. 

“It does not go against a man's character to be in love.” Thomas warned. “It does not make him any less of a man to care for someone. To open his heart-" 

“What utter nonsense-“ Carson muttered under his breath. 

But Thomas had been trodden on far too much in the past six months to take another word of it. Had watched his whole world slide away, despite how people like Carson swore his best days were still before him. Had died a slow, cold death in an empty bed with an empty heart as he consoled himself with a scratched gramophone record and a newspaper clipping that was fading by the day. 

He would not do it anymore.   
Not when Jimmy was standing right next to him, so close that Thomas could smell the peppermint on his skin. It invigorated Thomas. It gave him strength. 

“Love is not nonsense!” Thomas roared. No one dared to challenge him on it. 

There was a hand on his arm, small and warm as it tugged at his elbow and urged him to take notice. But Thomas would always take notice to Jimmy, even in the throws of a rage, and he looked over his left shoulder to find Jimmy looking up at him with such knowing- such understanding- that his anger momentarily slipped away from him to be replaced by an incredible sense of calm. Here, beside him, was the only person in the world who understood him. Fully and without consequence of pride. 

“I won’t have you damned for me.” Jimmy said, and he seemed quite firm in his stance. Thomas’ heart swelled to the bursting point with emotion, “What I did, I did to make her go away. Not to keep her near. I didn’t love her.” He shook his head at this. 

Thomas understood. He supposed Jimmy had simply been eager for sex of any kind when he’d gone to bed with Lady Anstruther- and how could Thomas blame him? He’d been keeping a cold bed for many years now. The idea of sodomy was practically a foreign one to him now, and that was saying something. 

“How could I love her?” Jimmy shrugged. Once again, Thomas understood.   
It was difficult to love someone who chased you down like a cat with a vole. 

“Indeed!” Carson snarled, seeming to be simply irritated by the sound of Jimmy’s voice more than anything else. Once again, everyone was back in arms, but it was Jimmy that spoke first. Jimmy that addressed Carson as Carson gave him such a look of loathing it was a wonder it didn’t melt his golden skin. 

“Mr. Carson,” Jimmy took his time with his words, seeming to mull everything over like a calculating chess player putting forth his best move, “I understand that the situation is grim, but this is what Mr. Branson has chosen. He’s courting Lady Mary, he could very well be the future Earl of Grantham-" 

“Only if the last man in England falls!" Carson snarled, as if this were the most disgusting notion that Carson had ever heard in his long winded life. 

“You can kick my cane.” John offered to Branson, who gave him a cheery smile.   
Thomas would promptly fling himself to the ground if it kept Jimmy in the house. Branson would hear no complaints from him (which was a first). 

 

“Mr. Carson-“ Jimmy continued on as Carson gave Bates an angry look of malcontent, “I know this is difficult for you, but it is the way that it is- and I’d rather work with the house than fight against the lot of you." 

_You leave the fighting to me, Jimmy._ Thomas thought with utmost affection. _They won't even get a chance._

“You make it sound as if I’ll give you a choice-!" Carson spat. 

“Oh you’ll give-!” Thomas started back, fists and teeth clenched as he instantly jumped to Jimmy’s defense. But then Jimmy's fist was back on his arm, and so he stopped- it was as if his whole being hung on Jimmy’s touch- like he was a loaded gun and Jimmy’s hand was the finger on his trigger. 

One squeeze, and Thomas would fire for Jimmy’s sake.   
Thomas looked down again, finding Jimmy still staring at Carson with that same level heat. 

For the first time in their lives, their roles were reversed. Jimmy was the one with a level head; Thomas the one with an uncontrollable temper. 

It was a mark of the stress on them both. 

“You’ll give me a chance, Mr. Carson,” Jimmy warned, “Because you knowI can work hard- that I could make an excellent valet.” 

“You are a prancing, flouncing peacock-“ Carson spat, and with each word Thomas tensed under Jimmy’s touch, “That could be good at anything so long as no one looked beneath the skin! Your behavior in this house caused another staff member to temporarily loose their senses- you promote bad conduct where ever you go, you are a disgrace to the name of servitude-!” 

Thomas opened his mouth with a deep sucking breath, eyes flashing wildly; Jimmy cut across Thomas before he could make the damning blow. 

“Mr. Carson, that's in the past.” Jimmy snapped. “What occurred that night is between me and Mr. Barrow alone, and I won’t have it used in an argument against me. The less we involve with it, the better for everyone.” 

“I agree!” John said at once, quite firm in his stance. Branson said nothing, though he did node his head a little in agreement. 

Carson’s eyes narrowed nastily. 

Jimmy did not budge, jaw clenching a little. Thomas felt Jimmy’s fingers flex upon the cuff of his jacket. 

_My god,_ Thomas thought, _You are a treasure._

Suddenly the door to Mr. Carson’s office, and all five men looked around to find Mrs. Hughes in the doorway, pale but firm as she gestured for Branson. 

“Mr. Branson." Mrs. Hughes called, “His lordship is looking for you. It's quite serious." 

But Branson hardly looked ruffled. He just gave Mrs. Hughes a charismatic smile to clap Jimmy in a friendly manner upon the arm as he passed. 

"To battle, then.” Branson said merrily. He looked over his shoulder as he left the room, “Welcome back, Jimmy; I’ll see you upstairs.” 

The door closed again, taking Mrs. Hughes and Branson with it. Carson sat back down behind his desk again, fuming silently even as he drummed his thick fingers upon his desk. His ink pot quivered a little in its pewter stand. 

“... There have been changes while you've been away, Mr. Kent.” Carson said, and suddenly his tone was far from angry. It was commanding, and in control, but it lacked that heated edge which unnerved Thomas far more than before. “Mr. Barrow has undergone a great deal of trouble to better his shoddy reputation in this house. I want your word that nothing untoward will happen between you two.” 

Thomas looked away, a great shame suddenly overtaking him as he thought of the contract Carson had nearly forced him to sign half a year ago. Jimmy’s touch slipped from his jacket cuff; he seemed stunned. 

“Christ if you make him sign a contract-“ Thomas muttered under his breath, deciding that if Carson made the move Thomas would promptly throw himself out the nearest window. 

“He made you sign a contract?” Jimmy demanded, agog, and though Thomas did not look around to face him, Thomas could tell that Jimmy was growing angry. 

“Should anything happen, anything at all, it will greatly damage Mr. Barrow’s chances of happiness and disrupt the functions of this house. Again!” Carson barked the word, “I won’t stand for it twice-“ 

“You won’t stand for it at all.” John said dryly. 

“Indeed!” Carson sneered. 

For a minute there was only silence as Jimmy took it all in; Carson’s staunch opposition and John’s irritation. Thomas' shame. 

Then, he spoke, and when he did his tone was icy with insinuation. 

“What occurs between me and Mr. B-“ Jimmy paused, restarting, “What occurs between me and Thomas is only inclusive of me and Thomas. I won’t have him drug through the mud just to make him holier to you lot. He had worth before you people decided he did." 

Affection, hot and warm, exploded in Thomas chest. He dared himself to look around, and found Jimmy glaring at Carson with such conviction that it staggered him. 

_Oh,_ Thomas thought weakly, _How I love you._

Jimmy had a hard edge to him in that moment no one could deny. It was not the murderous rage, commonly found in John, nor was it the sneering vindication Carson bore in the present moment. It was something all its own, a dangerous beast which threatened absolute chaos and spite should anyone test him. 

And it moved Thomas, deeply, to know it was for him. 

_He had worth before you people decided he did_ ; Thomas could be knocked over with a feather. 

"Well said, Jimmy.” John said, and there was pride in his voice. 

“He’s suffered enough for my sake.” Jimmy snapped, eyes still locked on Carson. Thomas wanted to swoon, and knew the affection was unmistakable in his eyes. 

_Oh Jimmy..._ Thomas thought, unable to even conjure up an idea in his head to complete the notion. It was too much. 

“I will not pretend I approve of any of this.” Carson warned; frankly no one in the room cared, “And should anything untoward happen again, it will be he that suffers for it, not you. I may not be able to control your actions, but I can control his... and he will leave this house if there is another disruption. Without a reference!” 

Thomas didn’t know whether the threat was an empty one or not, but it hardy ruffled Jimmy. If anything it seemed to amuse him. 

He turned, and looked at Thomas with such coy charm, such boyish delight, that Thomas had to take a shuddering breath lest he forget how to properly breathe. 

_Inhale, exhale, Thomas. You’re a grown man._

“Thomas…” Jimmy spoke with such jaunting delight, as if they weren’t in a room full of horrible hot tension, “Can you play piano?” 

“…Yes.” Thomas finally replied when he got his voice back. Yes, he bloody well could play the piano though certainly not with Jimmy’s charm. 

Jimmy smiled; Thomas' heart pounded joyously in his chest at the site of it. He could stare at Jimmy smiling all day long- it was such a beautiful and rare thing. 

_My god_ , Thomas wondered, _My god you are a beauty. How does the Earth still spin properly with you walking in it?_

“Jack Ross'll make room for you, sure enough.” Jimmy said, sounding quite pleased with himself. Thomas snorted at the idea of himself in a jazz band. What fun that would be, “You wouldn’t be without a job for a day- and I bet you can sing too?” 

“Well-" Thomas was suddenly bashful at the notion of singing. God only knows, he had know way of knowing what kind of tune he could carry. It might turn out to be a horrific idea, “I wouldn't know I’ve never had an audience-“ 

“You can practice with me.” Jimmy said, unconcerned. Thomas beamed at the thought, “C’mon-“ Jimmy ribbed him in good humor, “I bet you can sing like a dove-“ 

“The indecency of it all!” Carson was affronted, and Jimmy dropped his elbow at once to glare at him again. Thomas swallowed, desperately trying to compose his face into a meager version of the servant’s blank, “I won’t stand for it, i will not!” 

“Mr. Carson-“ John started exasperatedly at the same time as Thomas.   
“Mr. Carson-" 

“And you!” Carson gestured in sheer outrage at Thomas. His booming voice was tinged with disappointment. Thomas flinched, “Stringing along after him like a love sick scullery maid- do you have any sense of propriety!? Any sense of shame?! Or have you forgotten that Daisy is waiting for you in the servant’s hall?!” 

The name ‘Daisy’ was like a cold splash of water to Thomas’ face. He straightened up at once, the smile slipping from his features as all humor fled from the room. Jimmy watched it go, down heartened, but what could Thomas say? Just because Jimmy was back did not mean that anything had changed for him personally. 

Thomas still had to court Daisy if he wanted any chance of happiness. The most he and Jimmy could be were friends. He’d gladly take it and run with it, be friends with Jimmy for the rest of his life… but it didn't mean that he could expect any sort of future with Jimmy. He’d still end up alone even if Jimmy was back in the house. Worst of all, he’d have to watch Jimmy run around and be happy with someone else- god would that hurt. 

Daisy could help soften the sting. Even if only a little. 

“Well?!” Carson snarled. 

Thomas nodded, and turned to the door to leave. As his hand touched the handle, Jimmy’s voice jumped like a live wire in the room. 

“Thomas!” Jimmy cried out. 

Thomas paused, hand still on the door. He looked over his shoulder to find Jimmy looking quite distressed, as if scrambling at straws to save the already smashed moment. 

Thomas felt another empty pang of affection in his chest. 

"Mr. Kent." Thomas addressed him as formally as he could stand. John shook his head at the notion. 

“I’m glad to be back.” Jimmy gushed, eyes wide and imploring just as they'd been on the day that he’d left. On the day when Thomas’ heart had shattered, “To see you again. And if there’s anything I can do to help you, anything at all, for god's sake tell me.” And with a biting edge Jimmy snapped, “And it’s _Jimmy_ , damnit.” 

Thomas could not help but smile.   
“… Welcome back, Jimmy.” Thomas murmured, and he smiled in spite of himself as he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Thomas Barrow is at the end of his troubles, you've lost your minds.   
> The worst is ahead of us, friends.   
> The dawn has come, shedding light on a terrible storm.


	17. It's a Bloody Berceuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had it not been for his father’s fierce denial and his mother’s inability to give half a damn, Jimmy felt certain that he would have broken like a twig under the oppressive weight of his grandfather. Would have been a sniveling miserable wreck until he could scrounge up enough bobbies and brass farthings to slip away in the middle of the night. Thomas had had neither of these things facing down Carson… and still he’d come out on top. 
> 
> That meant something to Jimmy, even if Thomas didn’t know it. 
> 
> But now, it seemed that Daisy Mason (of all people) had taken Thomas from his proud pedestal to crash him back into the earth. To dirty him with her touches and her syrupy voice until he’d lost all his shine and simply sat mute in a chair. She’d done more than get in Jimmy’s seat or interrupt Jimmy’s card game… she’d taken away Jimmy’s best friend. His only friend, who had always supported him and cared for him despite what others said to the negative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A berceuse will be mentioned in this chapter. You can listen to it while Jimmy plays it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCvquy_BXeU&list=RDwCvquy_BXeU
> 
> The ENTIRE soundtrack to that movie is incredible, by the way... I cannot recommend it highly enough. 
> 
> I truly hope you enjoy this chapter. Writing Jimmy is very difficult to me, where as writing Thomas simply comes much more naturally. I identify a lot with Thomas (this may be why it's easy) but stepping into Jimmy's shoes when we know so little about his past... well... it's difficult to keep him in character. Hopefully I will do our favorite little piano player justice. 
> 
> Once again thank you to ALL my wonderful readers and reviewers. I am always so excited to hear what you have to say about the story. I know this ride has been incredibly difficult so far and admittedly it's about to get a WHOLE lot worse... but you just have to keep the faith in me. Everything I do, I swear I do for a reason.

It was strange, to be back at Downton but not under Carson’s supervision. Jimmy felt rather like a child who’d be let loose on Coney Island with no parental guidance to bother after. Some things were still the same; the hall boys woke everyone up at six, Mrs. Patmore screamed when people didn’t eat enough of their breakfast, the bells rang nonstop around the clock when Lady Mary and Lady Edith started trying to outdo one another, and Mrs. Hughes controlled the maids with an iron (but understanding) fist. 

Some things, however, were incredibly different. 

Jimmy had excelled at the task of first footman, had prided himself in his ability to carry a tray like it were made of finest crystal before a king, but found that being a valet was an entirely different experience. Valets were the secret servants of their masters- for a lord was only as good as the suit he wore- duty bound to keep every secret they heard on the fly while changing their man from one outfit to the next. Suddenly the working relationships of Downton were coming into a finer light for Jimmy, who had only ever had to worry about the dining hall and keeping away from Carson (as much as was feasibly possible). Anna Bates close natured companionship with Lady Mary suddenly made a great deal of sense- along with Phyllis Baxter’s loyalty to Lady Grantham. John Bates (the gormy bastard) was practically in Lord Grantham’s pocket, though Jimmy’s first year in Downton’s service had been spent with Thomas as the valet. There was something oddly paternal about the way that Lord Grantham had treated Thomas, which had slid into good natured camaraderie with Bates when he’d returned from prison… and Jimmy could see why it was that Bates and Thomas had never gotten along. From a distance it had looked like clashing personalities- up close Jimmy could see that it was Thomas’ dire envy of Bates’ relationship with Lord Grantham. Which was bizarre. Who’d want to be in a Lord’s pocket? That was Jimmy’s question… but apparently the answer was Thomas, because before Jimmy had left, Bates and Thomas had been such dire foes that it seemed the earth would split in two if they were ever to stand side by side. 

Now…? Well. That was different. 

Something had happened while Jimmy had left, god only knows what, but suddenly Bates and Thomas were right chummy- ducking into dark corners to bicker softly with one another before being drug out by Anna and Carson. At meal times they often spoke together, though never about Lord Grantham, and in the evenings Bates always made sure to say goodnight to Thomas when he left (something he’d never done before). There was a new footman (who’d taken Jimmy’s place) named Andy Parker that, despite being terrified of Thomas, was likewise in his pocket. Moseley had never liked Thomas either, but now he seemed to be on mild terms with him as well- frankly _everyone_ seemed to be on better terms with Thomas which made Jimmy feel less than special for his own relationship…. but that wasn’t the worst of it. 

No. The worst was Daisy Mason, god rest her flour caked soul. 

Before Jimmy had been unceremoniously chucked out of the house, it had always been he and Thomas- a duo that could never be parted. The ate together at meal times, played cards together afterwards, and generally caused mischief around the house so that Moseley and Carson were up to their ears in playful antics. At night, after lights out, Jimmy had found great refuge in Thomas’ room (they never went to Jimmy’s), and often spent an hour or so simply sitting on Thomas’ floor and drinking all the whiskey and gin Thomas had acquired during his time as Lord Grantham’s valet. Thomas didn’t drink; he’d been happy to let Jimmy work his way through every single blessed bottle; the pair of them had been right cozy… kindred spirits. 

Now, Daisy Mason was in the way. 

At meal times, it wasn’t so bad. Daisy ate in the kitchen with the rest of the scullery maids and Mrs. Patmore- but Jimmy noted that toast always got passed to Thomas first despite Carson’s irritations, and there was always a ginger biscuit or two to be found on his plate during tea times. Daisy would pour him a cup, give him an atrocious giggle, and bat her eyelashes at him till someone else called for tea or Mrs. Patmore chased her back into the kitchen. After meals, during the time when Jimmy and Thomas had used to play cards, Daisy now sat with Thomas going over books of all sorts. She’d lean in heavily on her elbow, nudging him in the arm and ribs, and would reach right up to whisper god knows what in his ear till Thomas blushed and looked away clearly embarrassed. But it was more than that; Daisy was besotted with Thomas and frankly? It was starting to piss Jimmy right the hell off. 

_“Oh, Thomas is so tall and handsome!”_ Daisy would gush, _“He’s smart and charming- he’s so witty!”_ and while Thomas was all those things, it was certainly no reason to love someone. Plenty of people had loved Jimmy for being handsome, charming, and witty… but none of those things helped a person sleep any easier at night or put bread on the table. If someone was going to love Thomas, why not do so for his incredible courage, his unnerving ability to see through bullshit (and call people on it), or the way he took such pride to detail? Nothing slipped under his radar. But no, instead all Daisy wanted to talk about was how _cute_ Thomas was, as if Thomas’ good looks were not noticeable to anyone with working eyes. But even there, Daisy had it wrong. Thomas’ _cuteness_ had nothing to do with how his hair looked in the moonlight (not that Jimmy was looking), or how his lips were a soft shade of vermilion (once again, not that Jimmy was looking). Thomas’ _cuteness_ had everything to do with how he was constantly misplacing his pen, scowling under his breath as he searched the downstairs inside out for it while forgetting it was actually in his vest pocket all the while. It had everything to do with how Thomas licked his lips when he was thinking too hard, and gave Carson dull dry stares every time he opened his fat flaming mouth. Daisy had it wrong, all wrong, and worst of all she was getting in Jimmy’s way (next to Thomas) and sitting in Jimmy’s seat (next to Thomas), until Jimmy wanted to tear his hair out and snarl _“Damned woman will you go away?!”._

Though he doubted she would take his advice. 

It was a muggy summers night, with the air turning slightly damp around the edges heralding the onset of rain. Clouds were beginning to build in the horizon, but as of yet no rain had fallen and the ground was horribly parched. Escaping the heat was flat out, so instead Jimmy, Thomas, and Andy sat clustered around the far end of the servant’s table playing a round of poker while each of them nursed one of Thomas’ cigarettes. Jimmy felt very guilty for smoking Thomas’ cigarettes, save for the fact that he knew it brought Thomas pleasure. Thomas had had a trying day, shouldering the brunt of training Andy to be a footman, training Jimmy to be a valet, and completing his own duties as an under-butler until he’d slumped into the chair (where he still sat) by the piano and begged Jimmy for a game of cards. 

Naturally Jimmy had agreed. 

“I’m getting better.” Andy said aloud, face screwed up in intense concentration as he looked from Jimmy (who was smirking) to Thomas (who was nearly asleep). “I swear I am.” 

Thomas leaned around the edge of the table, looking from Andy’s hand to the spread before them with a silly expression of morbid humor; clearly Andy was not getting better. 

“Play that card.” Thomas offered, tapping one in particular. Andy grinned, looking from the chosen card to the spread. 

“Oy!” Jimmy snapped, jerking Thomas’ attention right back onto him (where it rightfully should be), “Whose side are you on? This is a two man team here-“ 

“Oh Jimmy-“ Thomas said his name with such warmth and affection that it momentarily made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest as he sat back in his chair and finished his cigarette, “If we teamed up against him he’d be dead within twenty minutes.” 

“Is that so?” Andy snapped, not taking kindly to the idea of being so easily beaten. But Thomas just flashed him a razor sharp smile and stubbed his finished cigarette out in an already loaded ash tray. 

“Yes. That’s so.” Thomas said, and it was with such finality that Jimmy could not help but smirk. “I should just let Jimmy run you into the ground, but I happen to have a soft spot for the underdogs.” 

“Underdog, am I?” Andy declared, “We’ll see about that!” 

And then he proceeded to not play the card Thomas had urged him to, revealing a spread of straight. Jimmy smirked again, setting down his own hand of a full house. 

Jimmy thought himself decidedly clever until Thomas laid down his hand of four of a kind, and promptly won the lot. Jimmy couldn’t even be mad; he was too busy laughing at how Andy’s face was crumpling at being soundly beaten on both sides. 

Just as Jimmy made to take all their cards and reshuffle the deck, in walked Daisy Mason with a math book under one arm and tray of tea and biscuits in the other. Jimmy had just cleared the table; Daisy took advantage of it to lay down the tray. Jimmy grumbled, irritated at having their playing table blocked by biscuits. He pushed the tea tray to the side so that Andy could take a cup and a biscuit which he stuffed into his mouth with delight. 

“Oh Daisy, that’s heaven.” Andy gushed, “You’re the greatest cook in all the world.” 

“I have to keep you boys fed somehow.” Daisy laughed, and Jimmy watched with avid distaste as she suddenly leaned atop Thomas chair to rub his shoulders. As if he needed a massage or something. 

What the hell was she thinking, touching him in such a way- in the middle of the servant’s hall? What if Carson walked in and saw it? Thomas’ head would be on the chopping block. 

“Don’t you want your tea?” Daisy murmured sweetly into his ear- her voice was like syrup. Thomas had yet to take his offered cup, and instead was resting his eyes. Jimmy watched as Thomas rolled his head on his shoulders to the left and right, perhaps trying to pop his neck. Jimmy begrudgingly had to admit that Thomas might actually need a massage- but Daisy’s hands were far too slim and small to give him the satisfaction of a good one. 

Thomas’ shoulders and back were sinews of taught, strong muscle- like iron wrapped in velvet. Daisy couldn’t handle that. 

“Might want coffee for that one, he can barely keep his eyes open.” Andy admitted. 

“I think I can do that.” Daisy said in that same syrupy sweet voice before catching Thomas’ eyes and giving him the sauciest wink that Jimmy had ever seen on record. 

Jimmy’s mouth fell open in disgust as Daisy minced away, heading back into the kitchen to presumably make a pot of coffee with half a pound of sugar in it all for her love of Thomas. 

“… Did she just wink at you?” Jimmy demanded, disgusted. Thomas gave him a small smile of understanding- a bitter little thing. 

“Well they are courtin’.” Andy offered, ever one to take up Daisy’s shield (or so Jimmy had learned). It was no secret downstairs that Andy was besotted with Daisy, save to Daisy herself who only had eyes for Thomas. The who thing would have been funny if it wasn’t ruining Jimmy’s opportunities to enjoy his time with Thomas again. 

He certainly hadn’t come back to Downton for the delight of sewing buttons. 

“What, did you want a chance with her too?” Andy asked as Jimmy shuffled the cards with more vigor that was slightly necessary. “She’s a beauty isn’t she?” 

Jimmy scowled; Thomas caught sight of his expression and smiled again.   
_Well at least it makes you laugh,_ Jimmy thought. 

“My tastes are a little darker.” Jimmy grumbled, for Daisy was decidedly not his type. 

If Jimmy had to pick a type, it would be someone who was worldly, someone who was up for a good time and not so damn focused on home. Someone who could drink with him, actually keep up with the pace, and maybe even get him running in the meantime- someone who put Jimmy to the test instead of just constantly boring him over and over and over again. Daisy was one of the most boring people he’d ever met. 

Jimmy couldn’t say what Thomas’ type was, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t Daisy. 

As if bidden by Jimmy’s brooding, Daisy returned with a cup of coffee in hand. She set it before Thomas, who took it up at once to drink it despite it surely being piping hot. He sighed at the warmth, closing his eyes again for a moment as Jimmy re hashed their cards for another poker spread. It seemed that Daisy was blind to this, however, as she suddenly sat her math book down nearly on top of Thomas’ cards to lean back over his chair and murmur in his ear. 

“Now that I’ve got you hooked.” Daisy murmured suggestively, “Won’t you look my math book with me?” 

“We’re in the middle of a card game.” Jimmy broke in, rather annoyed. 

“Well that’s just too bad, isn’t it?” Daisy said, and though her tone was playful Jimmy still felt goaded by her words so that color began to rise into handsome cheeks. “You boys have had your fun with him, now it’s my turn.” 

And with that, she leaned right over to pluck Thomas’ cigarettes and lighter from his inner jacket pocket to light a new one up for him. It was such an intimate move, such a touchy moment, that Jimmy was momentarily stunned into silence and even looked away slightly embarrassed. 

He didn’t know why the sight of Daisy lighting up Thomas’ cigarettes irritated him so much… but it did. It felt too raw, too personal. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. 

“What?” Andy asked, catching sight of the look on Jimmy’s face and instantly dropping his cards. Jimmy shook his head, picking his hand back up to start arranging his cards in a fashionable order. 

“Nothin.” Jimmy said, his voice tight with irritation. “Nothin’ at all.” 

 

But it only got worse. 

 

It was one thing for Daisy to light Thomas’ cigarettes, to get in the middle of a card game and annoy Jimmy. It was another thing entirely for her to freak Thomas out by touching him- and she seemed to excel at that. 

Thomas was an incredibly private person, Jimmy knew this better than anyone else. Thomas didn’t like to be touched in public, unless he was the one who initiated it. In private, it was a different matter. One could touch him as they pleased there, and that was good and normal and _decent_ \- but in public? Thomas kept up an air of detached stoicism that Jimmy obliged to. When they were alone, when they played cards or smoked cigarettes outside… that was another thing. Jimmy could touch him then. There was a silent _‘okay go’_ that Jimmy heard every time the room was cleared, and he looked forward to it simply because Thomas smiled a little easier and slumped a bit more in his posture. 

Daisy either noticed nothing or cared about nothing. Jimmy didn’t know which one pissed him off more. 

You had to be stupid- damn stupid- not to see the way Thomas jumped and ran every time Daisy touched his arm, or his waist, or his back, or his chest or _god knows where else_. Thomas would stutter, going pale, promptly muttering one excuse or the other as he quickly left the room to go hide in a corner where Daisy could not find him. Jimmy had already walked in on him twice, sitting numbly in the boot room while Daisy called for him outside, wondering where he’d got off to. Another time Jimmy found him wedged between a pile of chopped wood and a brick wall outside in the court yard as Daisy sat lamenting in the servant’s hall wondering where Thomas could possibly have gotten off to. Every time, Jimmy had tried to see if Thomas wanted to catch his breath, maybe take a walk and just get the hell out of Downton for a moment… but every time Thomas would simply shake his head, steel himself again, and then return back inside to let Daisy climb all over him again.

And Jimmy couldn’t understand it. 

That wasn’t a relationship, running and hiding all over the place. It reminded Jimmy of how Lady Anstruther had chased him about her own estate before she’d left for France. Of how she’d chased him through Downton despite only being there one sordid night (and botching up everything when she did). Jimmy wondered if maybe he was just over thinking things, getting jealous of the way Daisy seemed to have more time with Thomas than Jimmy himself did… but there was something ugly and bleak in Thomas’ eyes every time Daisy touched him. Something that seemed to scream _‘Help me’_ despite the fact that Daisy was technically doing nothing wrong. 

It didn’t set right with Jimmy though. Not one bit at all. 

It was a hot midsummer’s day, and the rain had still not come. Jimmy had spent the better part of the morning while Branson was out going through his dressing room and organizing it. Shit was all over the place, from shoes on the floor to clothes atop bureaus; Jimmy had felt more like a maid than a valet cleaning up after the man- and even then he’d found several jackets that needed mending. Jimmy had taken the three of them downstairs, only to run into Thomas checking the inventory whom he’d promptly begged a needle and thread off of. Thomas had done him one better (as always), bringing Jimmy down his entire sewing kit from when he had been Lord Grantham’s valet, and telling Jimmy that it now under no uncertain terms belonged to him (seeing as he was under butler and hardly needed it). Gleeful, Jimmy had taken a light lunch before going through Thomas’ sewing box, eager to see what treasures lay inside. Some things made sense: thimbles, needles, thread, and scissors. Some things made absolutely no sense at all- a box full of needles with no holes for thread, a weird item of measurement that slid up and down like a scale but was barely bigger than Jimmy’s clenched fist, and buttons- by god where there buttons. Far too many buttons for one man to possess. Either Thomas was a kleptomaniac stealing buttons or Lord Grantham had a penchant for ripping his trousers. 

 

Jimmy didn’t know which concept was more absurd, though he imagined if Thomas was a kleptomaniac he’d certainly be stealing far better than buttons. 

Andy sat across the table from Jimmy, polishing silver as fast as he could with Moseley. The pair of them seemed to be in a race with each other, trying to out do the other. Bates was sitting in Thomas’ favorite rocking chair, working on a coat of his own with a small sewing box tucked at his feet. Baxter was darning lace for a summer frock for Anna while Anna took care of Lady Mary who was apparently having a ‘hair crisis’ (which Jimmy thought was idiotic since her hair now looked like a mushroom). Branson himself was out running about the estate with Lord Grantham, and Jimmy constantly kept looking at the clock upon the mantel to check the time for when it neared closer to two. As soon as Branson returned, Jimmy would have to get him out of his dusty traveling clothes and back into something sensible- only to change him again for dinner. 

Rich people had more clothes then they had sense. 

“Thats’ good, Jimmy.” Moseley said, after a moment of Jimmy struggling to do basic stitches around the hem of Branson’s torn riding jacket, “You’re doing well.” 

“Still feel weird, stitching away like a seamstress.” Jimmy admitted; this, as it turned out was actually a lie. Growing up, Jimmy’s mother had been a seamstress, and nothing had delighted him more in watching her put together a massive ball gown for some rich toff’s daughter. She’d taken swathes and bolts of fabric as long as the floor of their living room to twirl them together and make something extraordinary. Jimmy had likened her to an artist. She’d stitched him vests of purple and gold, put him in every color under the sun… Jimmy had liked that. Had liked feeling special all for her. 

_“Aren’t you a beautiful boy?”_ she’d cooed, wrapping Jimmy up in a bolt of green velvet. Jimmy had promptly fallen into her lap, wishing he could stay there forever wrapped up in emerald like a newly budding flower in May. 

“It’s a good skill to learn!” Moseley urged. 

“It’s woman’s work.” Jimmy shrugged, thinking of his mother and how she’d woven dresses like they were finely gilded tapestries instead of just clothes. 

“Don’t assign a gender to it.” Moseley urged as he finished with one candlestick only to start polishing another, “Mr. Bates is a valet and he’s not a woman!” 

Jimmy cast Bates an irritable eye, hulking over in Thomas’ favorite rocking chair like he had the right. Jimmy still had not forgiven the bastard for the way he’d so rudely pushed in on Jimmy’s private moment with Thomas only to declare that he knew what Jimmy felt. As if he could see into Jimmy’s head and knew all his thoughts. 

“If he were he’d be an ugly one.” Jimmy muttered nastily, eyes cast down back to his hemline. 

He suddenly thought of Thomas and what he’d look like if he were a woman.   
He imagined Thomas would be quite pretty, with lovely almond eyes and spools of raven hair that would fall to his waist. He’d probably have a very slender form, with long elegant hands. 

“Thank you, Jimmy.” Bates replied, as if Jimmy had complimented him instead of insulting him. Typical Bates; it only pissed Jimmy off more. 

But for every cloud there was a silver lining, for as Jimmy opened his mouth again to declare just how ugly of a woman Bates would be, Thomas entered the room with a half-finished inventory list in hand. He smiled upon seeing Jimmy crouched at the table over the coat, and came around the side at once to sit beside him in a chair which Jimmy happily pulled out for him. This was the way it should be- he and Thomas, talking to one another without Daisy around to make Thomas take flight like a little bird. 

“Still working on that coat?” Thomas asked, in good humor; Jimmy cocked an eyebrow as he stitched. 

“I’ll thank you not to laugh at me,” Jimmy checked his thread trail, “I’m slow going.” 

“Hardly, you’re doing well.” Thomas assured him, relaxing him chair to begin combing over his inventory, “The stitches are even and straight- most beginning valets are all over the place.” 

“The real problems are his shoes.” Jimmy forwent Thomas’ prior statement entirely, for it would mean having to fess up about his mother’s profession and Jimmy didn’t feel like that was a conversation they should have in public. He’d tell Thomas later, in his room. “Bloody Irish chauffeur is all over the place.” 

The pair of them snickered. 

“Where does he go?” Thomas asked, turning to catch Jimmy’s eye. At once, Jimmy answered him, turning a little in his chair to set down Branson’s coat over his knee. Jimmy couldn’t say why, but gossiping with Thomas never felt like gossiping. It almost felt like he was having a conversation with his inner thoughts- two kindred spirits weaving a harmony as they tried to make sense of the world. 

Jimmy had missed this, even with the booze and jazz of London. 

“Like I said, all over.” Jimmy repeated; Thomas propped his elbow up on the arm of his chair to rest his chin in his hand, “The other day he went through the neighboring farms to inspect these cottages his lordship put a fair deal of money into-“ Jimmy broke off, unsure about the rest. Branson had tried to explain it but it just sounded like a load of waffle to Jimmy, “Something about housing an A class community in C class housing. I can’t understand the lot of it.” 

“It’s all a matter of the weather where we are.” Thomas explained, and Jimmy listened even as he stitched thinking of his own house and how it had baked like an oven in the summers, “Damp housing is hell.” 

Thomas took out a cigarette- Jimmy set his needle down to reach over and light it for him. Thomas bent his head, and for a moment it was just the two of them in their own private world as Thomas sucked in smoke and Jimmy allowed the sent of tobacco to fill his lungs. 

As he blew the smoke out, Jimmy watched with fondness as it touched Jimmy’s coat and collar- how it twisted with his tie and wafted through his hair. 

“Growing up my house was tough on the weather. Scalding hot in the summers, freezing cold in the winters. Drafty, damp… houses here rot faster than graves.” Thomas relaxed back into his seat again. Jimmy reached out to for Thomas’ cigarette pack to light his own, and Thomas happily returned the favor of flicking his lighter for Jimmy. 

“What killed me mum, I sweat it.” Jimmy murmured- he’d been certain that mold in their house had caused his mother to take ill with the flue. It had been so drafty and damp, till spots had covered the ceiling of her bedroom. 

“It’s a miracle we all don’t die of the flue.” Thomas admitted. 

“What took your mum?” Jimmy wondered, for as much as Thomas knew about Jimmy’s past (and that was very little) Jimmy knew even less about Thomas’. Thomas’ was like a book he’d only gotten to read the very last chapter of- Jimmy so dearly wanted to go back to the beginning. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas admitted after a moment, and that gave Jimmy pause even as he made to make another stitch. How could someone not know what took their mother, “I haven’t heard from her in fifteen years.” 

Jimmy looked up, catching Thomas’ eyes. 

Jimmy’s mother had died in December of 1918. He’d only been home from war for a month or so, eager to get back on with his damn life. With his father dead, her care had fallen onto his shoulders- and in a way it had been easy. Jimmy had been a good nurse or so she’d forsworn, helping her to get well as best he could even with the rest of his family riding his back and sneering that he was a pathetic waste of space. 

_“You’re so good to me, Jamie…”_ his mother had whispered, her voice cracked and warbling with a high fever. 

Four hours later, she’d been dead… and Jimmy had been alone on the earth. 

“She could be dead and buried or… still walking around.” Thomas said it with a blithe smile, careful not to let too much emotion show around other people. But Jimmy knew Thomas best- and he could see the sting of pain in the twitch of his carved lips. The way his blinking slowed. 

Like he wasn’t even seeing the room anymore. 

“Then imagine her happy.” Jimmy offered, not knowing what else to say. 

“… I try to.” Thomas replied with a small smile. And just like that the hurt was healed. 

Thomas glanced down at the coat in Jimmy’s hands and tapped a wayward stitch with a long finger. “Mmm, go back over this one again.” 

Jimmy looked down at it with a slight scowl. Was it so bad that it needed restitching? Jimmy didn’t think so. 

“How? I already did it-“ Jimmy grumbled, but Thomas just took the coat from his arms. Jimmy was still holding the needle, making the thread grow tight as Thomas pulled the coat away. 

“Give me the needle-“ 

“I ought to poke you with it.” Jimmy muttered, but he handed it over none the less. 

“I’ll poke you back.” Thomas warned, and quite suddenly his hands were gliding over the dark red fabric to re stitch in a tight ‘x’ pattern. Jimmy had never seen it before, and was mystified by how smooth it looked. “Learned this in medic training.” Thomas declared, sounding quite pleased with himself, “One of the strongest stitches there is.” 

“Teach me?” Jimmy offered, and Thomas slowed so that Jimmy could watch every move he made. He talked all the while, quite content to sit nearly shoulder to shoulder with Jimmy as the coat spread out between them. 

Jimmy didn’t know why, but he felt profoundly happy in this moment. Like all the rest of the world had slipped away. 

For a minute it was just the pair of them going back and forth, Thomas stitching and Jimmy watching while the inventory lay forgotten. Jimmy was suddenly reminded of being wrapped in emerald velvet, perched in his mothers lap as she rocked him and sowed at the same time. Eventually though, the moment had to end as Thomas finished the hem line and pulled back for Jimmy to see. 

Jimmy took the needle and coat from him, their hands bumping as they swapped over the itms, and began to attempt the stitches himself. Thomas seemed impressed, giving Jimmy a warm smile as Jimmy followed his moves to a ’T’. As Jimmy began to sew once more, Thomas took up his inventory to continue working. Neither made to move away from the other, simply because it felt quite comfortable being shoulder to shoulder. There was nothing wrong about best mates enjoying a moment of quiet. 

Neither noticed the small smile Bates flashed them from across the room.

“Alright, how’s that?” Jimmy said, after half an hour of stitching. He’d done an entire collar line by himself now, and Thomas paused in his inventory to check it over. He nodded, impressed. 

“Good. Very good.” Thomas said, “You’re a fast learner.” 

A bubble of pride began to swell up inside of Jimmy.   
_Yes,_ he wanted to proclaim, _I am. So focus on me instead of Daisy_. 

“You gonna teach me math problems next?” Jimmy sneered, setting his coat aside to give his hands a moment of rest. Thomas snorted at this, still scratching away at his inventory. 

“We’ll start with something simple.” Thomas gave Jimmy a dark smile, “Differential Calculus par example.” 

“You’re not scaring me!” Jimmy said, still puffed up with pride over being a ‘fast learner’ in Thomas’ eyes. Thomas raised an eyebrow, taking the bait to flip over his inventory page for a clean sheet beneath. Tugging it loose from the bottom and flipping it over to reveal a blank backside, Thomas clipped it atop his clipboard to begin scrawling with his pen. Jimmy leaned over even more, shoulder to elbow alongside Thomas as Thomas worked. 

“How about three x squared minus x minus ten over x squared minus four.” Thomas wrote out the problem, and handed it over to Jimmy for jimmy to take along with his green pen. 

“What.” Jimmy spluttered; he’d have better luck if Thomas had handed him a banana instead of a pen. 

“Solve that if you’re so sure!” Thomas laughed. 

But Jimmy knew Thomas was ribbing him. That no matter what he put down, Thomas wouldn’t judge him or call him out for a fool. So instead Jimmy took it upon himself to make Thomas laugh, picking up his pen to draw a little sail boat next to Thomas’ problem. 

Sailing was the perfect solution for math. Not a care in the world, when you were sailing. 

“Twat!” Thomas laughed aloud, chin in hand as Jimmy just grinned and passed him back the clipboard and pen. 

“Show me the answer then if you’re so smart.” Jimmy said, wondering if Thomas could, in fact, solve it. Thomas just plucked up the pen with pride, perching the clipboard on his knee to show Jimmy the solution: 

“Circumvent the indeterminate form by factoring both the numerator and denominator-“ Thomas paused, suddenly scribbling out out more numbers and letters than ought to be possible in one problem alone. Jimmy gawped, unsure of what to do or say, “then divide out the factors x minus two, the factors which are causing the indeterminate form zero over zero. Now the limit can be computed.” 

Thomas was laughing as he spoke now, ever aware of the way Jimmy gaped at him as he just kept scribbling. 

“Three times two plus five over two plus two… eleven over four is the answer.” Thomas finally finished, and just for good measure he put the final fraction inside the ‘hull’ of Jimmy’s sailboat. “…And your boat.” 

Jimmy looked Thomas up and down, marveling at the way Thomas bit at his lower lip to keep from snickering. He was a true wonder, in that moment. An incredible man. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jimmy demanded, for surely Thomas Barrow must not be human. Thomas just laughed, head thrown back as Jimmy snatched his clipboard away and immediately drew a more fancy elaborate sail boat. He was hardly an artist but it was something fun to do; Thomas looked on with a soft smile, fancying the way Jimmy drew rigging and ropes though he hadn’t the slightest idea where either would go on an actual boat. 

But Jimmy was thrown completely off balance when, from out of no where, Daisy appeared in the servant’s hall to come around the table and put her hand on Thomas’ shoulder.   
Thomas was startled so badly that he jumped in a fright, sending the clipboard clattering to the floor at their feet as he wrenched away from Daisy’s offending hand and nearly collided into Jimmy. Jimmy gaped, his nostrils suddenly full of the smell of Brilliantine, ginger spice, and nutmeg- Thomas had been so close Jimmy had been able to smell his natural musk. It caused a heat to creep into his face, to have something so personal shoved on him when there were five other people watching, and he felt a pang of sympathy for Thomas who still swallowing in lungfuls of air like he didn’t know hot to breath properly. 

Andy and Moseley gaped at the display. 

“Cor, Daisy-“ Thomas gasped, “You scared me to death!” 

But Daisy just laughed, as if this were all funny and Thomas’ terror was amusing, “I’m sorry-“ She said in that syrupy sweet voice though she did not sound sorry at all. She put a gentle hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades. Jimmy watched the entire thing unfold, scowl growing deeper upon his face as Thomas just got paler and paler. 

“I-uh-“ Thomas was standing, Daisy’s hand slipping from his back to fall (to Jimmy’s horror) to his waist. Thomas’ cheeks were suddenly burning, regaining their color in a flash to turn hot pink as he moved away from Daisy’s mocking embrace to hug against the table. “I have to take care of a clock. I better get on that-” 

And he was gone, whisking around the table. Daisy was quite down heartened, frowning as Thomas slipped away. Andy looked terribly confused, Moseley a little embarrassed. Daisy gave a little huff of disappointment. 

“He must be feeling blue today.” She said.

This just pissed Jimmy off even more as he bent over in his chair to pick up Thomas’ clipboard from the floor. His sailboat now seemed to be mocking him. 

Daisy caught sight of him scowling and did a double take, frowning as Jimmy leered at her from his chair. 

“What?” She demanded, taken aback. 

“Would you quit doin’ that?” Jimmy demanded, his voice coming off in a growl more than he meant to. 

“Quit doing what?” Daisy asked, quite perturbed as Jimmy rose from his chair to hastily pile Thomas’ supplies back in his sewing box. He needed some fresh air; the servants hall was far too hot for him at the moment. 

“Scarin’ him off-“ Jimmy snapped. 

“How am I scaring him?” Daisy demanded; she seemed to be on the verge of laughter at the absurdity of it all, as if Jimmy were joking and any second now he was going to break into a song and dance to say _‘surprise!’_. 

But none of this was funny to Jimmy, when he was certain Thomas was about to go sequester himself somewhere in the abbey to shake like a leaf for an hour. 

“You keep touchin’ him-“ Jimmy snapped, and at this he learned right in so that despite being in a room with four other people their conversation was considerably private. Daisy blanched, her expression turning sour as she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“I’ll remind you that we’re courtin’, Jimmy.” Daisy said his name with just the tiniest touch of malice. Jimmy hardly cared. 

“Are you courtin’?” Jimmy leered, leaning in well and good so that even Andy couldn’t hear, “Looks more like you chasing him around the house and him hidin’.” 

And with that he picked up Branson’s jacket and Thomas’ sewing box to leave the room entirely for quieter quarters. Daisy watched him go, scandalized with bright pockets of pink upon her plump cheeks at Jimmy’s open rudeness. 

 

And even still, the horizon only grew darker. 

All of it would have been okay, would have been manageable for Jimmy, if Thomas was fighting against it. If Thomas was determined to come out on top and keep Daisy away. But it just seemed like Thomas had given up hope and that disturbed Jimmy more than Daisy’s touches ever could. 

During the fall of 1920, when everything had gone right to hell, Thomas had showed incredible fortitude and endurance underneath everyone’s scorn and criticism. Without need for pride or flamboyance, he had simply stated, “I am what I am and I am not ashamed” until even Carson in all his curmudgeon manner had had to accept it. It had scared Jimmy, the way nothing could shake Thomas; it had reminded Jimmy too easily of how Jimmy had bent like putty to the will of his acerbic grandfather until he was too scared to even speak in the old goat’s presence. Even now at the age of twenty five, Jimmy could still hear his grandfather and father fighting in his ears; he’d been hiding the darkened hallway of his ancestral home- listening in on the pair of them as they squabbled in the study. 

_“He’s not right, Gerald!” His grandfather had shouted. “You know that boy is not right! Look at the way he minces about; he’s not satisfied till everyone’s watching him!”_

_“You’ve got it all wrong!” Jimmy’s father had been furious, piping furious, on the verge of starting a fist fight, “You’re a miserable old bat- you just hate seeing joy! You’ve forgotten what it means to be a child- to have fun!”_

_“When I was a child, I didn’t wear skirts and twirl like a milk maid for show!” Jimmy’s grandfather had leered._

_“For gods sake, Julia is a seamstress- she was making skirts and wanted him to try one on- it meant nothing!”_

_“He’s a lavender-!”_

_“He’s seven!”_

And so it had gone on back and forth. The next day, Jimmy had been unusually quiet at the breakfast table, and instead of nattering on about how bees pollinated flowers (he’d learned it at school the previous day) he sat with his hands folded in his lap and took small bites of his porridge. His mother had checked him for fever, and Jimmy had looked up to see his grandfather scowling at him from across the table. As if, even by simply looking up, Jimmy had disappointed him in the worst of ways. Jimmy had promptly burst into tears, causing an outburst at the table as his grandfather started to rail and his mother scooped him up to take him away. He’d not gone to school that day, had instead walked with her down the boardwalk of Brighton to get a penny lick and sit in the sand. 

_“He’s a miserable old goat.” his mother had assured him, “And he’s just jealous of the way you shine. Go on, build mummy a sand castle, won’t you?”_

And so Jimmy had, collecting shells from up and down the beach to make his mother the prettiest sand castle he possibly could. 

Had it not been for his father’s fierce denial and his mother’s inability to give half a damn, Jimmy felt certain that he would have broken like a twig under the oppressive weight of his grandfather. Would have been a sniveling miserable wreck until he could scrounge up enough bobbies and brass farthings to slip away in the middle of the night. Thomas had had neither of these things facing down Carson… and still he’d come out on top. 

That meant something to Jimmy, even if Thomas didn’t know it. 

But now, it seemed that Daisy Mason (of all people) had taken Thomas from his proud pedestal to crash him back into the earth. To dirty him with her touches and her syrupy voice until he’d lost all his shine and simply sat mute in a chair. She’d done more than get in Jimmy’s seat or interrupt Jimmy’s card game… she’d taken away Jimmy’s best friend. His only friend, who had always supported him and cared for him despite what others said to the negative. 

_“Jimmy’s a tease!” Ivy had lamented._   
_“Says the girl who put on rouge.” Thomas had countered at once._

_“Jimmy’s got no dreams.” Alfred had argued._   
_“He does too have dreams; his just aren’t centered around chopping carrots.” Thomas had said._

_“Jimmy’s a vain and silly flirt.” Mrs. Hughes had warned._   
_“And thank god for it.” Thomas had muttered back. Mrs. Hughes had scowled._

Jimmy wanted Thomas back. Brave, unshakable Thomas who didn’t care what others thought or if society was approving. 

As it was Jimmy was stuck with a shy and uncertain Thomas that sat slumped on the piano bench next to Jimmy, thigh to thigh as Jimmy played a very slow soothing melody that seemed to fit the night time heat. At the other end of the servant’s hall, Bates and Anna were gathering their coats, preparing to go home for the night. Branson was dressed and done for the night; Andy was in the kitchen desperately trying to flirt with Daisy. Moseley was out back with Baxter, attempting to be a suave as he could with half a head of hair and even less marbles to rattle around beneath. Daisy, for the moment, was busy in the kitchen… and so Jimmy took full advantage of the moment to soothe Thomas. Thomas kept his head bowed, watching as Jimmy’s fingers spidered their way across the ivories. It was comforting. To simply let go and absorb oneself into music- into all that music offered. So long as Jimmy played, so long as Jimmy wove his fingers around keys and kept the peddles pressing… Thomas didn’t have to face the world. Jimmy wouldn’t play till the sun went black if it meant Thomas could gain his strength back. Jimmy considered, in that moment, that it was one of the most unselfish things he’d ever done. Played, to give another strength. 

He’d not done such a kind thing since he’d nursed his mother through her fatal illness- and she’d been his _mother_. 

When Jimmy finally finished, he waiting to see if he should strike up another tune. But Thomas just tilted his head, looking down at the piano as if it were made of ivory and gold. 

“… That were beautiful.” Thomas whispered. 

“Thank you.” Jimmy said, and he meant it as he popped his knuckles and thought of another piece to play. “But it’s not my best.” 

“What’s your best?” Thomas asked, intrigued. Jimmy offered him a small smile. 

“I work best when I’m inspired.” Jimmy explained, “Got a few pieces like that. Things I really labored over. Really poured myself into.” 

Thomas was enraptured by his words; and that was as it should be. Jimmy was speaking to him, for him. Thomas needed to pay attention. Jimmy found himself staring into Thomas’ eyes, noting that the gray was flecked with the tiniest bits of emerald. 

It reminded him of the cloth his mother had wrapped him up in. 

“Show me?” Thomas asked, “Please?” 

Had it been anyone else in the world, Jimmy would have refused.   
But he’d written this piece for Thomas, had pushed him into every bar of every line… and so he agreed with a curt nod of the head. 

“Only if you pay full attention.” Jimmy warned, resetting his hands upon the piano. 

He began, and from the minute he pressed down on the keys Thomas watched, entranced. Jimmy lifted himself with each press of the pedal, felt his chest expanding and retracting even rolled with each note. He felt like an ocean wave slowly beating against the shore. Methodical, trance inducing. 

Thomas certainly seemed to be under a trance. He practically had his eyes closed.   
_Good_ , Jimmy thought with care. _That’s as it should be_. 

He suddenly wanted to lull Thomas to sleep. To sooth him right till he drifted off. 

 

And then Jimmy was finished, and so he stopped.   
“That’s it.” Jimmy mumbled. Thomas blinked his eyes open slowly. “That’s al I’ve got. “ 

For a minute Thomas just recuperated himself, shuddering despite the weather being quite warm. It was as if Thomas had felt a chill. 

“…That…” Thomas swallowed before continuing on, rendered speechless. Jimmy could not help but smile, “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in me life, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy snorted, rather tickled by how soppy he was getting. “I mean it.” Thomas continued on, this time more urgently, “Truly.” 

“You’re only complimentin’ yourself.” Jimmy warned him. “You inspired it.” 

Thomas blinked rapidly, quite taken aback.   
“Me?” He asked in wonder. 

Jimmy grinned, returning his hands back to their starting position to resume playing the tune. This time Thomas listened with even greater intrigue, a slow sweet smile creeping upon his face. Jimmy just kept playing till he reached a significant part to lean over and say, “See that right there, that’s when the smoke hits your eyes.” Jimmy explained, fingers tickling back and forth. 

Thomas’ smile only grew wider. 

“This is when you look at me-“ the melody grew slower. “This is when you’re runnin’ about followin’ Carson’s orders.” and suddenly the melody picked up to race up the scale. Thomas laughed softly, perhaps seeing it all in his mind. He was clever that way. 

“But this part right here-“ Jimmy said, for as the melody slowed and grew sweeter still he knew he’d come to the crux of the moment, “This is where you push the hands of the clock. As slow as you dare.” Jimmy murmured, hands slowing even more, “See? I slow down too.” 

Jimmy could not help but cast a glance at Thomas, to see what his facial expression would look like now- but Thomas wasn’t staring at the piano. He was staring at Jimmy. 

Staring at him with such wonder and adoration that it was like a day hadn’t passed since last September. Since the night of Anstruther when they’d whispered like children in the upstairs gallery. 

It was this that Jimmy had missed in London. You couldn’t capture that kind of look in a letter. You couldn’t see emerald velvet in ink and paper. Jimmy let out a breath, marveling at the flecks. 

He wondered if Thomas knew there was green in his eyes. 

“Thomas? Are you alright, you looked flushed?” 

Jimmy vaguely registered Daisy’s voice on the cusp of their private moment but did nothing to acknowledge it. It was unimportant. Daisy could take care of herself. But suddenly a ghostly hand was appearing out of no where, and Jimmy watched as if in slow motion as Daisy reached out to touch Thomas’ brow for fever. Thomas was entranced- too busy staring at Jimmy to notice Daisy’s approach- and when Daisy’s blistered fingers touched his temple he jerked in a clammy terror! 

“God!” Thomas cried out, whipping around to find the owner of the offending hand smiling warmly at him. Daisy just laughed a little and pressed her fingers back to his brow. “Daisy, you scared me.” 

“Mm.” Daisy murmured, and she brushed some of the hair back from Thomas’ forehead, “You’re not fevered-“ 

But Thomas shrugged her touch off, looking horribly embarrassed, and now he wouldn’t meet Jimmy’s eyes again. Now Thomas was back to the sulking pile of morbidity that Jimmy so detested- that robbed him of adequate breath when he thought of the Thomas he once knew in comparison. But Jimmy had seen Thomas-! Had seen that same adoration in Thomas’ eyes not seconds before. The kind that promised to take on the entire world if only to fight for a better day- and now Daisy had gone and chased it all away with one stupid blistered hand touch. 

Jimmy couldn’t stand it. 

“Would you _stop_ doin’ that?!” He snapped. Thomas was blushing now, eyes diverted to look at the chipped woodwork of the ancient upright piano at which they sat. 

Once again, Daisy was affronted, hands sliding to perch upon her hips so that for a moment she suddenly looked like a much younger (and much thinner) Mrs. Patmore. But Jimmy wasn’t scared of Mrs. Patmore, young or old, and frankly Daisy had crossed a line intruding on such a private moment between him and Thomas. 

They were sitting at the piano for Christ’s sake! 

“I don’t know what’s got you all riled up-“ Daisy huffed, indignant, “He looks right fevered, I was just checkin-“ 

“He’s not fevered, and he doesn’t need to be bothered with you!” Jimmy snapped. Thomas looked in need of a tall glass of scotch, morose with his face to the wall. Daisy didn’t seem to know what to take more offense to. The fact that Jimmy was railing on her or the fact that Thomas wasn’t defending her. 

“I’m hardly _botherin’_ him! You’re the one bangin’ around on the piano so late at night-“ 

“It’s not bangin’-“ Jimmy scoffed. It did not surprise him in the least that Daisy could not understand the beauty of a piano and the tunes it could make, “You wouldn’t understand, you’re too simple-“ 

“Oh, simple am I?” Daisy grew an angry shade of red, but Jimmy did not make to take back the insult, “What’s gotten into you, Jimmy? Why are you bein’ so nasty?” 

_Good. Leave_. Jimmy thought viciously. _Get gone, no one needs you in this conversation._

“Just leave off, would you?” Jimmy demanded. But to his chagrin, Daisy turned right back around and started pulling on Thomas again, as if to take him with her. 

_No, goddammit that’s not what I meant!_

“Thomas?” Daisy snapped, looking quite ready to bang a pot over Jimmy’s head as soon as she got the chance. Jimmy flushed, humiliated as Thomas looked around with a tiny bitter smile. He wasn’t even fighting, wasn’t even trying to sit and stay- was just going to leave the piano, and the moment they were sharing. As if it was common. As if it had meant nothing. 

Jimmy huffed, looking away as Thomas rose from the piano bench. 

“Go on. Go on and follow her right up the garden path. Never mind me.” Jimmy muttered nastily into the piano, taking over the breadth of the bench to begin plucking at the keys with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Thomas paused, mid-step in following Daisy out the servant’s hall. She was waiting for him in the doorway, scowling but oddly patient where he was concerned. Jimmy supposed, bitterly, that it had something to do with the fact that they were courting. 

“Jimmy,” Thomas mumbled, but words failed him and they were suddenly left in a soupy muggy silence that neither appreciated. 

“What, Thomas?” Jimmy snapped, still looking at the piano instead of swiveling around on his seat and facing Thomas in the doorway, “What are you going to say?” 

“… Thank you for sharing that music with me.” 

Jimmy paused mid-tune, fingers hanging uselessly off the keys as Chopin’s work drifted into silence. It was a haunting second of fading delight, marked by Jimmy slowly turning around in his seat so that he was finally doing Thomas justice and looking at him. Thomas was pale- as pale as his gray-green flecked eyes, and Jimmy wondered if he would ever see Thomas happy or smiling again without Daisy coming along and ruining it. 

Thomas looked down, then back up again. It seemed he’d steeled himself, resolved himself. To what Jimmy couldn’t say. 

“… I don’t think I’m worthy of it.” Thomas admitted. “It’s far too beautiful for me.” 

But Jimmy wouldn’t be swayed. He was a man of few (true) talents, and music was one of them. He’d written Thomas’ piece with care, had taken each note to heart; it was Thomas, even if Thomas himself didn’t believe it. 

“You are.” Jimmy finally declared; the tiniest smile twitched Thomas’ carved lips, “I wouldn’t have wasted my time otherwise.” 

Thomas was starting to smile again-   
“Thomas?” Daisy called expectantly from the doorway. 

“Right-“ Thomas broke off, smile vanishing. He turned. “Coming.” 

“Are you?” 

Jimmy couldn’t understand why he had to talk- why he couldn’t just turn back around on the piano bench, continue playing, and forget the whole sodding affair- save that he hadn’t seen such a beautiful shade of emerald since his mother had wrapped him in velvet and he wanted to see it again. Wanted to know it better. He couldn’t very well do that if Thomas left. 

There was more, much more, but his chest squeezed like the onset of a cardiac arrest every time he thought about it and his brain started reeling in a panic. He couldn’t think about it now. Maybe later. 

“I have to.” Thomas said, looking over his shoulder with another waning smile. It was forced, fake, and Jimmy hated every inch of it. It didn’t belong on Thomas’ lips. 

“Do you?” Jimmy challenged again.   
_Do you have to court a girl?_   
_Do you have to wear a fake smile?_   
_Do you have to go?_

 

“I do.” Thomas said, and just when Jimmy was about to open his mouth and argue again, Thomas said something incredibly profound. “This is the way it has to be, Jimmy. It’s not right, and it’s not fair, and it’s not easy… but it is the way it has to be. One day it won’t hurt as much, or so I tell myself.” Thomas paused, his fake smile dropping way completely, “Hopefully I’m right.” 

But there were too many ‘hopefully’s in that sentence, and Jimmy was suddenly terrified of the thought of Thomas being wrong. Of being wrong and suffering horrendously for the sake of a society who had never cared to understand him anyways. 

“And what if you’re wrong?” Jimmy asked, ever the one to check a back door exit if he could. He hadn’t left London without knowing he could return, he wouldn’t let Thomas go up the garden path without knowing the same. But Thomas did not smile, did not blink- his face grew grayer still as he swayed on his feet. 

“… Then it ends.” Thomas replied. 

Jimmy stuttered, his breath halting in his chest. 

Thomas left, turning away to exit the servant’s hall with Daisy in front. Suddenly Jimmy was by himself, in a muggy and miserable hall at a dingy and ugly piano; but despite his solitary confinement it was far from silent. 

_“Then it ends.”_

What ends? What? ‘It’ was too vague, too open ended- Did it mean his courtship to Daisy? His resistance to reason? This weird song and dance that Thomas was suddenly singing with Bates and Moseley and everyone else? 

Or did it mean something worse… Thomas’ happiness, future- life? 

Jimmy’s throat was constricting. He needed to leave but he had no where to leave to. He needed to walk but he was likewise stuck without a place to go. Everywhere he walked would just lead him back to Downton, back to this damn piano, back to the fact that Thomas (in three words) had promptly reduced Jimmy to a state of dire panic. 

He rose from the piano, and left without another word, grabbing his jacket off the back of his dinner seat to run for the courtyard door which was locked at such a late hour. Jimmy didn’t care, he forced the key and slipped outside. 

Thomas wasn’t a quitter- he was a survivor. Survivor’s didn’t just give up, give away their lives because society was a berk or nature was against them. They fought, persevered! Thomas could surely do the same! He’d always inspired Jimmy to keep his head up, even when things were looking dire. 

_“London is full of opportunities.”_ Thomas had whispered, shaken and gray but staunchly supportive as Jimmy had packed his valise to leave Downton. _“You will find a job, Jimmy. I know you will.”_

But it didn’t matter if London was full of opportunities if Downton was not- if Thomas was killing himself for a girl who didn’t even know who he fucking was. Who didn’t even care. 

_But I know!_ Jimmy thought desperately as he ran down the drive of Downton to hit the main dirt road, _I know and I care!_

It was this thought, more than any other, which prompted him to flee- but even as he fleed he stopped to lament, half turning with a pounding heart and a sweating brow to seize and curse at the night. 

_“Then it ends.”_ Thomas had said. 

“God damnit-“ Jimmy spluttered in a frenzy, “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!” 

And without so much as a care in the world, Jimmy reared back to punch a nearby tree. 

Pain zinged through his hand, crippling him as he yelped and cradled his now bleeding fist to his chest. Christ, that had hurt-! Jimmy winced, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as he doubled over in pain only to curse again. 

“Ah, _Fuck!”_ Jimmy howled when the pain became too much to bear, “What was I bloody buggering thinking- fuck me!” 

“Jimmy?” 

Jimmy didn’t know whether to feel shocked or angered as he looked over his shoulder to find Anna and Bates coming down the dirt road. They were wearing their coats and hats- clearly they’d just left the abbey for the night. Jimmy was still clutching his hand, on the verge of screaming as it gave another nasty throb. He was almost certain he’d broken his fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Anna asked, agog; she approached he with caution, “You could have hurt yourself!” 

“I’ll thank you very much t’say I did.” Jimmy hissed through gritted teeth. Anna gave him a humored look, reaching out to gently pull his hand away from his chest to see how it bled in the moonlight. Bates was upon them now, his cane tapping along as he shifted his bowler hat a little higher on his head to look at Jimmy’s hand. 

“Let me see-“ Anna tutted, rotating Jimmy’s hand by the wrist to avoid touching his swollen fingers, “Oh Jimmy- you might have broken your hand.” 

“That’ll need to be bandaged.” Bates remarked. 

_Well aren’t you just bloody brilliant._ Jimmy thought bitterly, _Right philosopher you are!_

“What were you doing, punching a tree?” Anna asked, but that question was too close to the truth, too close to the things Jimmy was afraid to admit or say- it irked him to no end that Bates was smirking at him as if he already knew the whole affair. 

Jimmy seethed, eyes narrowing at Bates. Bates didn’t look the slightest bit concerned. 

_I might be a shrimp but I’m a shrimp with muscles and you’ll regret messing with me,_ Jimmy thought angrily. 

“Come back with us to the cottage- we’ll bind your hand.” Bates offered. 

“I don’t bloody need your help!” Jimmy scowled, and despite Anna having offered him no foul remark he still pulled his hand back rapidly from her grip to clutch it against his chest again. Instead of looking miffed, Anna looked sorry for him- as if he were a sodden kitten left out in a cold rain. 

Jimmy seethed all the more; he hardly needed sympathy! 

“Fine then, let’s go get Thomas to look at it- he’s a trained medic-“ Bates offered, but this just made Jimmy even madder. 

“I don’t-!” Jimmy barked only to stutter and start again, “I don’t need his help either!” 

The idea of Thomas binding his hand was… alarming. Not in a bad way, but still. That was far too much touching and far too little talking for Jimmy’s liking. 

“No, but I dare say he needs yours.” Bates was, once again, incredibly on target for pissing Jimmy off; this time, however, it was tinged with buckets of regret at the thought of Thomas needing his help and Jimmy not being able to give it. 

_“Then it ends”_ Thomas had said. 

Jimmy had to take a moment to compose himself, not wanting to look too shaken by Bate’s words, but he’d be lying to himself if he tried to say they hadn’t unsettled him. The last time anyone had truly needed Jimmy had been his mother when she’d been ill. He’d tended to her with such care, such devotion. He’d never strayed too far from her side until the final day of her life in which she’d bid him to take a small walk around the house to cool his temper. When he’d returned, she’d been dead in her bed… like a little bird shriveled up in the bottom of her cage. Jimmy thought of Thomas, if their futures would be that way. Would Thomas tell him to go take a walk one day, and Jimmy would return to find him dead on the floor of his bedroom… wrists slit- 

Jimmy shuddered. He did not want to think of such things.   
They made him nauseas and angry; small in his inability to help. 

“Right.” Bates seemed to have decided the course of action for all three of them, taking Jimmy by the elbow and tugging him along as if he had half a right to do so. Jimmy staggered on the dirt road, unsure of just how he’d gotten roped into this motley crew. It only took him about five seconds to decide he wanted out. 

“Quit jerkin’ me around!” Jimmy struggled away, earning him another disapproving look from Bates, “I’m not five!” 

“Then quit acting like a five year old.” Bates said.   
Jimmy wished he could have kicked his cane without running the risk of getting chased out of town by Anna. He had a feeling that she’d chase him down, corset and all, only to beat him into the dirt with her hand bag. 

The Bates lived in a cottage by on the outskirts of the village proper, in a subdivision of little houses that were relatively close to Downton and clearly homes for farmers. Jimmy supposed that to some, such living would be nice, but for him it seemed a pain. You’d have to walk half an hour just to get into town- what was the point in that? No, Jimmy preferred to be in the heart of it all. Back in London Jack’s studio apartment had been right across the street from a bakery and a flower shop. He’d been able to get hot mince pies any time he wanted, and a free flower if he was sweet enough to the shop girl. 

They entered as a clustered group, Jimmy in between Anna and Bates with his bleeding hand still clutched to his chest. His first thoughts upon entering the cottage as Anna turned on the lights, however, were ones of mild disgust- dear god there was enough lace to coat a rug. It was homey and warm, with a clock on the mantel and even a tiny upright piano in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been played on in years. The sofa was threadbare, the carpet just the same, but Bates and Anna were right at home as they took off their hats and gloves to help Jimmy into the kitchen. It was likewise a tiny establishment, just a stove, table and chairs. Jimmy noted a calendar and a broom propped up in the corner by the back door which seemed to lead out into a garden. Anna put a kettle on at once, and Bates pulled out a chair at the table to force Jimmy into it. Jimmy brooded, feeling cramped and intruded upon as he held his hand to his chest. Bates pulled out the chair next to him, sitting down with a sigh to prop his cane against the edge of the table and force Jimmy’s hand away from his chest. In the warm light of the cottage, it looked swollen and purple, Jimmy’s knuckles were cracked and bleeding heavily. 

“Fine mess you’ve made.” Bates grumbled, turning Jimmy’s battered hand this way and that in the light of the oil lamp to observe its state, “It’ll be difficult to dress Mr. Branson with a broken hand.” 

“I’ll manage.” Jimmy muttered, unwilling to give Bates the satisfaction of seeing him in pain from the way he gripped his hand. Jimmy had once seen his father accidentally slam his hand in a door, clearly breaking a finger and blackening a nail only to laugh and shake his hand about like he were holding a smoking match. He’d ben unfazed by the pain, even as his fingers turned from black to green to yellow. Jimmy was determined to be the same way. 

Anna took the kettle off the stove, pouring steaming water into a ceramic bowl to fetch a rag and dip it in. She pulled out the seat on the opposite side of the table to stretch Jimmy’s arm across the wood, pausing with her rag over his knuckles to give him fair warning as Jimmy’s hand slipped from Bates’ grasp only to fall into her own. 

She gave him a small smile. 

“This may hurt.” She admitted. 

“I can handle-“ Jimmy said, but even as he spoke she pressed down with the steaming hot rag and he had to immediately stop talking and clench his teeth or risk yelping. Yelping was decidedly un-manly. 

“Why did you punch a tree, Jimmy?” Anna asked. “Why were you cursing and carrying on?” 

Jimmy said nothing, sniffing a little and wincing as Anna continued to dab at his bloody knuckles. 

“Flex your fingers?” She asked. He did so, and winced when two of them gave a resounding pop. He was relieved to find none of them broken. 

“You played beautifully tonight, on the piano.” Bates said. “You have a true talent for music.” 

Jimmy shrugged, unwilling to accept the compliment when it came from Bates. 

“It must be very hard,” Bates mused, “To watch Daisy flirt so openly with Thomas.” 

Jimmy snorted, knowing full well where the conversation was going. He would not be participating in it one absolute inch. The first time had been bad enough. 

“Why should I care?” Jimmy shrugged. “They’re courtin’.” 

“Because you love him.” Bates said. Anna let out the tiniest, terse sigh. Jimmy slowly slid his eyes from benign distraction to cold fury, glaring at Bates with all his might. It only served to goad him further that Bates didn’t even bat an eyelash. 

_Damnit, can’t you see I’m mad at you?!_

“Don’t start that soppy nonsense again-!” Jimmy warned. 

“I don’t understand you.” Bates began to rub his wounded knee methodically, “Why is it soppy?” 

“Because-!” but Jimmy couldn’t answer, too fixated on how angry Bates made him feel by simply existing, “It’s- It’s bloody ridiculous and you know it, don’t act like it isn’t-“ 

“Tell me again why love is ridiculous?” 

“It isn’t love!” Jimmy snarled. Bates scowled. For a minute the pair of them were in a silent battle of wills, with Jimmy’s pride and Bates’ irritation at the forefront. But then Bates dawned upon an idea, or so it seemed, for a positively evil smile was starting to crawl across his fat, ugly face, and Jimmy withdrew a little despite how Anna still wrapped his hand. Anna pulled his hand back, Jimmy refused to budge. 

“… I’ll prove you wrong.” Bates declared, . 

“I’d like to see you try-“ Jimmy sneered, inwardly wondering what in the hell Bates was up to now. 

If Bates could prove him wrong, Jimmy was screwed… and Jimmy knew it. He trembled slightly in his chair and blamed it on the cold until he remembered it was the middle of summer and immediately cursed himself. 

“I have a piano in my living room.” Bates jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Why don’t you play Thomas’ song for me.” 

“I’m sorry?” Jimmy was taken aback, wondering how on earth Bates knew that Thomas had a requiem- it wasn’t a _song_. There was hardly any _singing_ any it. It was a _berceuse_. Bates was clearly a moron with no taste for good music vocabulary. 

“Your hand isn’t broken.” Anna added, and just for good measure she made Jimmy flex his purpling fingers a second time, “But it certainly is bruised. Mr. Branson will think you’ve gotten into a bar fight with a fist like this… but you should be able to play!” She said brightly. Jimmy narrowed his eyes at her, “Oh please Jimmy won’t you? It was such a lovely song-“ 

“It’s a berceuse, and it’s not _his_. I just wrote it with him in mind,” Jimmy cut her off. If they called it a ‘song’ one more time he was going to choke them on their abundant lace. “And why should either of you care about it?” 

“I’m going to prove a point.” Bates said, “So play the song.” 

“It’s not a-“   
“Just play it.” 

Jimmy seethed, clenching his bruised hand into a fist even as Anna pulled back with a now bloodied rag. She’d wrapped it well, a soft cloth concealing the cuts, but it was still highly irritating to deal with- Jimmy worried the bandages might catch on the ivories and make playing difficult. 

Still. Perhaps there were worse fates. 

Rising from the chair with as much dignity as possible, Jimmy stormed into the living room to sit down at the little upright piano and sniff at it with haughty disinterest that quickly melted into concern as he pressed his ear to the action and gently played a c-major. From within the muffler felt and hammer rail, an off-tune sound warbled up. 

This piano needed to be tuned. Thomas’ berceuse was going to sound like a choppy lamb’s mewl. Still. 

A piano was a piano. 

Anna and Bates had followed him into the living room, and as Jimmy rubbed his bruised and battered hand to place it gingerly over the D major scale, Anna perched herself on the back of her lace covered sofa to watch him play. Bates sat on the arm, pausing once again to rub methodically at his injured knee. He’d not even bothered to bring his cane with him. 

_Bet he doesn’t even need that cane_ , Jimmy thought bitterly as he began to play, _Ruddy cripple- he’s not even bonafide and still everyone worships him!_

Jimmy played the berceuse the whole way through, and found that despite his hand being wrapped and injured he could still chase the chords (particularly the part where Thomas was running around the house). As it drew to a close, Jimmy sat back to put his hands in his lap, looking over his shoulder with a smug expression of contentment. 

But Bates was still smiling. If anything he looked more convinced. 

“So.” Bates waved a hand mildly between them, “Where’s the part where he looks at you, again?” 

Jimmy’s smug expression slid from his face like hot butter melting in a heated skillet. He fizzled, jerking up from the piano as if it were trying to accost him. Bates just followed, getting to his feet as fast he could without a cane. Anna suddenly appeared quite nervous, her light blue eyes jittering back and forth between Bates and Jimmy as if she expected a small scuffle to break out. 

“If you’re trying to be funny, you’re failing.” Jimmy tried to make for the front door; Bates got in his way. 

“Call it whatever you like, berceuse or not, but that is love!” Bates warned him. Jimmy scoffed at the mere notion, “You cannot tell me that you don’t love him when you made that song- when you play it like your very life breathes through it-!” 

Jimmy tried to tell himself that he was just angry because Bates had once again called the berceuse a song when it clearly was not, but he knew he was fooling himself- it jilted him, making his cheeks flush hot as his breathing drew like a staccato wind in his chest. He pursed his lips, eyes gleaming viciously. Of course he played like if his life breathed through it, that was how good music was supposed to be played! That was how one stood out in a crowd, when you were a musician. You couldn’t just spit out a tune on a piano and expect it to make an impact unless you honestly tried! 

“You know nothin’ about it!” Jimmy snarled, “So stop talkin’ like you do-!” 

“I do know something about it, because if I had an ability I’d make a song just like it for Anna-“ 

“You’re being stupid!” Jimmy shouted, “This whole thing is stupid, and you know it!” 

“Love isn’t stupid!” Bates seemed more shocked and angered by this statement than by anything else Jimmy had said the entire night. Jimmy withdrew a little as Bates grew angrier still, “Why do you think love is stupid, Jimmy? Why do you think everything that is soft or gentle is unworthy of your time?” 

Jimmy flushed, suddenly remembering how very soft and lovely that emerald velvet had felt against his skin. How warm it had been, especially during the bleak winter. That velvet had done nothing to save his mother, however… and whatever weird affection Jimmy had for Thomas would likewise do nothing to save him. 

It wasn’t affection though; it was friendship. They were best mates. It was only natural that he should feel some amount of affection for his best mate, surely.

“When you sat on that piano bench, right next to Thomas, practically leg to leg with him- would you have preferred it if he’d punched you in the mouth?!” Bates demanded in a rush. Jimmy bristled. 

“I-“ 

“Don’t you dare lie to me.” Bates said, and so Jimmy was cut off before he’d even begun. 

Anna crossed her arms over her chest, pursing her lips as Bates waited to see what Jimmy would say. But Jimmy had nothing to say, nothing that made sense or would come in any use during this argument. He couldn’t explain to Bates about the velvet, about his grandfather, about Anstruther or why it was that he and Thomas could never (god so help him) explore the affection between them- 

But it wasn’t affection! 

Jimmy flushed, looking away. He suddenly wished he were back in London drinking all the gin in sight. But there was no gin in Grantham, Ripon, or Thirsk that could help him now, and Bates was as relentless as a battering ram against the shaky foundations of Jimmy’s soul. 

_If only Thomas were here_ , Jimmy could not help but think, _He’d protect me_. 

“Do you love him?” 

Jimmy twitched, an ugly burning sensation suddenly beginning to spread in his chest. He rubbed at his injured hand for something to do, wincing every time his calloused fingers touched his cut knuckles. 

But Bates would not quit, “Just answer me straight out, honestly. For his sake if no one else.” 

Jimmy bowed his head, his traitorous mind jumping through a hundred scenes with no rhythm or reason. Thomas distraught or delighted; Thomas smoking and sneering. Thomas leaning in to kiss him and backing up in horror. Thomas with him in that smokey hallway and underneath that damp moldy bridge. Thomas slumped on a crate of rotten vegetables, bleeding like a stuck pig… and Thomas huddled in a motel bad, whimpering for the pain that Jimmy had never meant to cause him. 

_“Oh.” Thomas had whispered, “That hurt.”_

“Well?” Bates asked, “Yes or-“ 

“Would you just shut up?!” Jimmy demanded in a rush. “This has nothing to do with you!” 

Bates stopped at once; behind him Anna bowed her head from the back of the couch. 

“None of this-!” Jimmy gestured his hand out as it to encompass an entire field of chaos, “Has anything to do with you! None of it, d’you understand me?!” 

Bates did not make to disagree, and though he was not the one under the gun he suddenly looked immensely tired; he rubbed his brow. 

“Jimmy, I am only trying to help-“ 

“Well stop.” Jimmy spat. “Because you’re not.”

Bates nodded, though it didn’t seem to be in any sort of agreement. 

“… Thomas will never let you be made a fool of.” Bates said after a moment.   
Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name. Of the fear. 

“He will defend your endlessly.” 

Jimmy made a noise underneath his breath.   
Thomas couldn’t defend Jimmy. Thomas was too busy trying to stay alive underneath Daisy’s flour caked thumb. But Bates was shaking his head again, eager to have his say. 

“Jimmy, when you were trying to get him fired, he defended you.” Bates said. “When you got drunk at that fair, he defended you. When Anstruther waltzed through the door, he defended you. He always defended you.” Bates paused, “That’s what you do for someone when you love them. You protect them.” 

Bates was right. 

Though Jimmy had not been witness to it, Thomas’ defense of Jimmy was legendary among the upper ten. During “the incident” Jimmy had thought for certain in a haze of terror that he was sunk- but Thomas had happily thrown himself in front of the cart and horse to keep Jimmy from getting hit. For an entire year, Jimmy had done everything possible to put as much distance between the pair of them as was humanly possible (to the heated annoyance of everyone else around); still Thomas had defended him. To the point where Jimmy would lay awake in bed for hours at night wondering if there was something mentally unhinged about him… to care for Jimmy when Jimmy cared nothing for him. Then the fair had happened…. 

And everything had changed. 

The fact of the matter was that despite being a red blooded Englishman, Jimmy had never been in a successful fight, and had known from the minute that his arms had been pinned behind his back that he was screwed. He’d been frightened senseless with that thug had raised his arm, had thought for certain that he was about to meet a sticky and ugly end- but then Thomas had appeared. 

_“Let him go-“_

_“An’ whose gonna make me?”_

_“I am.”_

Cue one horrific beating later, Jimmy had realized with all the force of a bull stampeding over him that Thomas wasn’t mentally unhinged, or a promiscuous lavender. Thomas was in love with him. 

It was the fact that someone had actually thought to love him- had cared about him even when Jimmy had been so plaintively cruel for over a year- Jimmy had thought for sure that no one would love him if they knew who he really was. So Jimmy had let Thomas in, had shown him his uglier sides… had jerked Ivy around by the chain and promptly thrown her over with all the flippant care a cad could possess. Still Thomas had loved him. Jimmy had promptly begun sleazing his way around with Anstruther even as she made her way back over from France. 

Still, Thomas had defended him. Had loved him. 

_Moron_ , Jimmy thought, but even there he could not deny the massive amount of affection he felt. 

Still. 

Jimmy steeled himself, brushing past Bates and Anna to make for the front door. If he were a nicer man he might have thanked Anna for caring for his hand. But Jimmy wasn’t nice. Jimmy was Jimmy. And the only one who had ever loved Jimmy was Thomas. 

And now, when it mattered most, when push had come to shove… Jimmy couldn’t save Thomas- couldn’t help him back. Couldn’t protect him from Daisy Mason and her pastry puffed hands. 

The very thought made him sick. 

“Jimmy-!” Anna called out from the couch; Jimmy paid her no heed, jerking the front door open and exiting out it before Bates had a chance to drag him back. The minute his feet touched grass, he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jammers. You're too much. I need a beecham's powder just watching you struggle with your internal disputes. KEEP THE FAITH JAMMERS. KEEP THE FAITH. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your reviews... they mean the world to me! <3 <3 <3   
> The next chapter will hopefully be up very soon. Originally this chapter and the next one were supposed to be the same- just one huge big thing... but I decided to slip it up for the sake of not making people read a chapter of bloody War and Peace. The page count was just climbing and climbing!


	18. Train Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy kept a grip on his arm, determined not to let him fall a second time.   
>  She could hardly believe he’d fallen at all. 
> 
> “… I’m not like other men.” He said in a rush.   
>  Daisy shook her head, still unclear.
> 
> “How are you different?” she asked, hoping for more detail. 
> 
> “I’m… attracted…” but Thomas cut off at this, grimacing painfully to start again, “I’ve had… in the past…” 
> 
> But it seemed he didn’t know how to say what needed to be said. Daisy rubbed his arm as soothingly as she could, and winced in empathy when she felt him shaking beneath her touch. 
> 
> “Relationships.” Thomas finally bit out, “With other…men.” 
> 
> Daisy blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody; another update. Rather soon, I know, but that's because this was originally meant to be attached to the previous chapter. I decided at last minute to make it its own segment because it's a beautiful train wreck and deserves to be glorified/reviled by itself. 
> 
> What's the train wreck you say?   
> Oh, you'll find out. 
> 
> As always thank you SO MUCH to all my readers and reviewers. I apologize for any spelling errors that slip my editing process, and hope that you continue to enjoy this story. It's so much fun to write!

Jimmy was in serious trouble, and Thomas had to put a stop to it. 

Being apart from Jimmy was hell- not knowing what he was doing, what he was thinking or saying-? Thomas hadn’t been able to stand it. The constant fear of the unknown and the constant misery at the known. The knowledge that he’d never see Jimmy or his quirky little smile again. But now Thomas could see Jimmy, and thank god for it. Jimmy was back, waltzing into his life as if he’d never left, and once more Thomas was chasing his dust trails. The only problem was that Thomas now had Daisy attached to his hip, and she was less than enthusiastic about Jimmy’s attitude. 

But Thomas loved Jimmy’s attitude. Lapped it up like a kitten to milk. Every curse, every snide comment, every sneer and eye roll- 

_Yes_ , he thought with a gushing glee, _Give me more. Let it be my bread and butter._

Jimmy was a fantastic valet, as Thomas had known he would be. Fashionable but aware of the needs of a roaming man amid the heather of Grantham; quick to organize and clean when Branson was out so that despite having a pile of dirtied laundry and broken buttons, Jimmy was still on top of his game. Thomas was proud of Jimmy, fiercely proud, and knew that Jimmy would continue to be a good valet for as long as he wanted to pursue the career. Thomas had to admit that he’d preferred Jimmy as a jazz musician- but he’d keep that little piece of information to himself if it meant Jimmy could stay nearby. 

At the same time, Thomas was growing avidly aware that Jimmy could _not_ stay permanently. 

When Daisy touched Thomas, Jimmy didn’t like it. Jimmy got jealous, and quick- he’d jump out of his chair eyes flashing to demand Daisy bugger off. This was bad on several fronts; for one it hurt Daisy’s feelings and Thomas didn’t enjoy that when Daisy was constantly moaning in his ear about it. On the other hand, it made Thomas wonder if Jimmy was getting confused. If Jimmy was forgetting himself in his desperate attempt to keep Thomas happy.   
Thomas wouldn’t have that. 

Jimmy’s identity was more important than Thomas’ happiness, and Jimmy could never give Thomas what he wanted. Thomas knew this well enough. Thomas could ponder on how to protect Jimmy for hours, could go over it back and forth till the crows cawed and the cows came home, but nothing would change until Thomas acted on it. The problem was, Thomas didn’t know how to act. How to proceed. Every option he considered only ended up hurting Jimmy or Daisy; neither could be satisfied without the other whining. Thomas was effectively in the middle of a tug of war where he was the rope. 

He really did not like being the rope. 

He needed Jimmy to find a girl and fast, or the both of them were going to be in hot trouble. If Jimmy could not find a girl, and continued to berate Daisy for breathing, Jimmy needed to leave… before he sank them both. Carson was on the verge of a second heart attack, Lord Grantham was scowling all through dinner, and Branson was taking longer business trips away from Downton just to get Jimmy out of the house and away from the line of fire. 

 

“I don’t understand it!” Daisy whined, following Thomas from hall to hall as Thomas slid updated inventories into the hands of Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, and Mr. Carson in turn. Each of them gave Thomas an amused look as Daisy lamented after him, at his elbow while Thomas returned to Carson’s office to see if he had any more inventories left after the day’s haul. Jimmy was gone from Downton, running about the countryside with Branson who was apparently on the Devil’s errand to save Downton’s fortune; Daisy was taking full advantage to nag in Thomas’ ear before Jimmy came back and promptly started playing that beautiful berceuse. The thought that it was for Thomas, of all people, just made him love it all the more. It made him giddy and terrified; to think that Jimmy actually made music for him. Beautiful berceuses.. god only knows what else. Thomas was not one to scream or swoon, but if Jimmy started singing for him Thomas was certain he’d promptly flip and start squealing like a flapper after her favorite jazz daddy. 

_I’m insane_. Thomas thought bitterly as he entered Carson’s office, _I’m actually going insane. Jimmy better get a girl soon._

“Why is Jimmy actin’ so foul?” Daisy whined as Thomas took a seat behind his desk to pull forth an aggressive pile of ugly inventories that all clamored for his immediate attention. “He used to be nice! Well-“ Daisy took it back at once, weighing her hands before her as if the answer lay between them, “Not exactly like William but- you know-! Pleasant!” 

“Mm.” Thomas kept his lips pursed so that he didn’t say anything he’d regret.   
Thomas never liked talking to Daisy about Jimmy. It would only end in an argument, and Thomas did not want to argue with Daisy. Arguing was not conducive to courtship. 

“Now he won’t even look at me without scowlin’!” Daisy scoffed, slumping against Mr. Carson’s closed door. She took off her white bonnet temporarily to smooth back her hair; Thomas noted that she still had her comb in though no one could see it, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” 

That made two of them. 

“He has his own way of goin’ about things, and that’s fine.” Thomas assured her, flipping through inventory after inventory in dismay, “He just needs to find a girl to run about with, that’ll sooth him.” 

The sooner the better; Thomas was starting to get confused… for a man in his precarious position, confusion was tantamount to destruction. 

“God…” Thomas moaned, realizing with dismay that he had no less than thirteen inventories to file. Thirteen! “No more, please.” He laid his head on the desk with a rather loud ‘thump’, moaning into the dirty wood. A few strands of slicked back hair fell out of place, crowning his brow. 

For a moment, Thomas was too absorbed in his newfound misery to realize Daisy was growing closer. But then, quite suddenly, her hands were upon his shoulders, massaging at the knots beneath his livery to make him groan into the wood. Her grip was far too weak to do much good but still- it sure was nice. 

“Sit up straight.” Daisy ordered. Thomas did was he was bid, smoothing back his hair as he did so; Daisy was behind his chair, rubbing at his shoulders now with more vigor. 

Thomas had to admit she was rather good at massaging- it must have been from all the dough she’d kneaded in her life. His eyes were slowly closing as he allowed himself to relax into Daisy’s touch. For some reason he could contend with her rubbing his shoulders- though when she touched his face he did not like it. He did not like it at all. 

It was too personal, too invasive… though he knew he couldn’t tell her to stop. 

“Thomas…” Daisy spoke up. “Why is Jimmy so angry at me?” 

“I dunno Daisy…” Thomas mumbled, unwilling to think about it too deeply in that moment, “Don’t worry about it it’s… probably nothin’ important.” 

_Liar_. An ugly voice warned him, _It’s very important_. 

“It’s wearin’ you to tissue-“ Daisy’s hands were sliding upon his neck, coming around his jaw- Thomas started in his chair, pulling back from her touch before it went any further. His heart was suddenly beginning to race in his chest, much like the time when Daisy had urged him to take off his shirt. He looked around, nervous, to find Daisy frowning in dismay, “And you jump whenever I touch you.” 

“I’m sorry.” Thomas apologized; it was certainly no fault of Daisy’s, “I- I’m just so…” Thomas fished around for something to say. 

But then his eyes fell on Mrs. Hughe’s incomplete wedding inventory.   
“I’m just caught up in all this wedding nonsense.” 

“Is it nonsense?” Daisy asked, the coy tune returning in her voice as Thomas relaxed back into his chair. 

“To me? Yes.” Thomas grumbled. 

Frankly, he cared for none of the song and dance. Who gave a damn about rings, or vows… Love had nothing to do with money or inventories. Thomas certainly wouldn’t need an inventory when he married Jimmy in the woods- 

_Stop thinking about that_ , a voice warned him, _You cannot think like that now that Jimmy’s back in the house. You know this Thomas!_

Thomas pursed his lips. 

“Would you ever be keen to marry?” Daisy asked.   
Thomas noted the tension at the edges of her voice. 

And suddenly they were slipping into very dangerous territory indeed. 

They’d been courting for six months, and Thomas knew what the end objective of courting was. The fact of the matter was that Thomas had had thoughts about this before, had wondered where it was all going to end up- but every time Daisy touched him Thomas felt like electricity was crackling under his skin (and not in a good way). He knew what she wanted, knew what she rightly deserved, but he also knew that he was not man enough to give it to her… or was he? 

Could he marry Daisy? He was unsure.   
Part of him thought he probably could. 

What would it take, in all honesty? Some things would change, some things would stay the same. If they ended up marrying, Daisy would probably be keen to take over Mr. Mason’s farm, but then again perhaps not. Despite having gone under his tutelage to look into the idea of running the farm, Daisy seemed to also want to go back to London. If they went to London together, Thomas could probably take out a loan and open a shop as a clock maker. He could be respectable, normal- 

And end up like his father. What a delightful fucking thought. 

Thomas pursed his lips, sighing as Daisy’s hands gently perched upon his shoulders. 

“I think all men would, in some way or another.” Thomas admitted softly, “Now that Carson’s getting hitched it seems to be on everyone’s mind… but I was never the marrying sort initially.” 

_Initially_. was an adorable word for being a sodomite. 

“To be fair-“ Thomas added, “There was no one who’d marry me anyways.” 

“I disagree.” Daisy murmured, her grip tightening warmly upon his sore shoulders, “I’d marry you.” 

Thomas jerked, looking around at her agog; Daisy flushed, seeming to realize what she’d said. She looked away, quite nervous, her hands slipping from Thomas’ shoulders so that she was suddenly wringing her burnt fingers. 

“Uh-“ Daisy floundered, a smile fluttering and falling upon her face as she tried to gain back her coy edge, “I mean.” 

But Thomas was still watching her, and Daisy’s words drifted into silence. For a minute, the pair of them stared at one another, and though Daisy did not know it there was a minefield between them. 

Because Thomas would never marry her without telling her the truth.   
And if she knew the truth, she’d never marry him. 

He was certain of it. 

“You’d regret it.” He whispered, thinking of how happy Daisy had appeared to be the past six months, “Everyone involved would regret it. It would be better if you put the idea out of your head and spared yourself now while you still can.” 

But instead of being put off, Daisy just seemed to grow more enchanted. She reached out, and Thomas did his best not to jerk as she touched his strong chin between her thumb and pointer finger. He could not hide back a shudder as her fingers spread along his jaw. Despite having courted her for six months- when she touched him in such a way it… it unnerved him. 

He’d never been touched this way. He didn’t know how to cope with it. He didn’t know if he should lean into it or pull back. If he should mimic it on her own skin or if he should just do nothing. 

“… I could make you happy.” Daisy whispered, the warmth and love obvious in her brown eyes as she gazed down at Thomas, “So very happy.” 

Thomas shuddered again. Daisy’s thumb slipped to the edge of his mouth. His lips were slightly open. 

“You make me happy.” She said. “So happy… I couldn’t live without you now.” 

“I’m a bastard, Daisy.” Thomas whispered. He didn’t know what else to say anymore.   
Daisy slid her hand upon his face, her pointer finger perched upon his lips to silence him before he could say any more. 

“Sh.” She whispered. 

And just like that, Thomas fell silent. 

He wondered what would happen if Daisy knew the truth. If Daisy understood the full danger laying between them. Would she still want to touch his lips if she knew just how many times they’d trailed along the skin of another man? Or would she run away screaming for the police? 

It wouldn’t be like he didn’t deserve it at this point. 

“No more of that talk.” Daisy consoled. Thomas looked away, Daisy’s finger sliding from his lips to fall back to her side. For a minute they simply sat in silence, each toeing a different edge of a great chasm with such between. 

“.. Would you ever… think of marrying someone now?” Daisy asked, wrapping her arms about herself. 

It was a valid question.   
And unfortunately it wasn’t one he could avoid when it came to Daisy. Not when she loved him; looked at him like he was the center of her universe. Thomas didn’t have the stomach to break her heart. Didn’t have the nerve to trample her dreams now, when he clearly held all the answers in her eyes. 

“Only if they knew the truth about me.” Thomas admitted. “The whole truth. I wouldn’t have a marriage based in lies, and I don’t think that anyone would marry me if they knew the whole truth.” 

Daisy nodded. 

“Will you tell me the whole truth?” Daisy asked; her voice was tight in her throat, pained and weak for all the prayer she put into it. 

Thomas met her eyes, and found them sparkling with a mixture of fear and hope. 

“… If you give me time.” He promised. He doubted that she would agree to marry him (and in a way he was praying she wouldn’t), but he’d gone this far now. In a way, he felt like he had an obligation to follow the road as far as it would take him, if only for Daisy’s sake. Daisy had fallen in love with a mask, but every mask was bound to drop. Daisy’s adoration for him might soon be at an end, but Thomas could not stop himself from wondering about all the possibilities. About the family he’d lost and the family he could gain. About the respect he’d somehow managed to earn among the upper ten just by dating a woman- respect he could keep if should he become engaged and then married. 

Thomas imagined a world where he was surrounded and accepted, loved as John was loved- he found the image so foreign to him that he could not feasibly pull one together. He imagined a world where he might return to his family. Hold his mother- his twin sister again… and finally meet her two boys. His nephews. Daniel and _Thomas_. 

To see their faces would be worth every inch of agony he endured with Daisy. 

 

 

Could he marry Daisy? Should he marry Daisy? Thomas was spinning round back and forth. 

He knew he _should_ marry Daisy. He knew he should do this courtship justice, follow it to the very bitter end, and if that meant going up the wedding aisle then so be it. That was what was proper, expected, required, and frankly Thomas had spent far too much of his life in isolated loneliness to undermine the values of companionship. Daisy was not his type; she talked far too much and like to play the safe path… but she was good at heart and keen to learn. She kept him on the straight and narrow, where Thomas knew he needed to be. He didn’t exactly like being there, didn’t exactly enjoy the constant manner watching and line toeing but… Thomas had to admit his life had improved under her tutelage. 

On the other had, Thomas wondered if he _could_ marry Daisy. Word on the wall was that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had been going back and forth about whether they could have a ‘full’ marriage (a thought which frankly gave Thomas nightmares) but there would be no such question between him and Daisy if they were to wed. Everyone would be expecting Daisy to perform her ‘wifely duties’. Everyone would be expecting Thomas to take full advantage of that and probably get her pregnant. Thomas liked children very much, enjoyed playing with them and indulging in their little games as they created their own realities and rules… but he had absolutely no idea if he could bed Daisy and get away with it. Who was to say he wouldn’t get right to the crux of the moment and turn tail and back out like a coward? 

Thomas had tried in bed, the night he’d spoken with Daisy on the idea of marriage. Had tried to bring himself off to the mental image of Daisy undressed and before him. He wondered what her hair would look down, out of its bun. If it might be slightly curled at the ends, like his mothers had been (practically ringlets in the summer humidity). He tried to imagine Daisy writhing and moaning for him- but he honestly could not get hard to the image. It was a fruitless task. Then, suddenly, Thomas’ fantasies had turned down a dark path, and suddenly Daisy’s curved body had turned slightly more angular- her long brown hair becoming short, wavy, and gold. 

Thomas imagined Jimmy on all fours, face buried into the pillows of some luxurious bed and moaning in a heated keening wail as he prepared himself with his own fingers. 

Instantly Thomas had gotten hard, and had brought himself off to the fantasy of being Jimmy’s first time. Of taking him in a way that no other man had before and satisfying him so deeply that Jimmy would be hoarse from screaming Thomas’ name by morning. The evidence would lay between his sore thighs, his own desire sated and sullying the sheets on which they slept. Thomas would lay behind him, running his fingers through Jimmy’s hair and kissing beads of sweat from his temple. 

Thomas woke the next morning, feeling as if he’d never slept in the first place and bitter at the realization that he couldn’t bring himself off to the idea of Daisy. It meant a lifetime of pretending, of actually imagining Jimmy when he lay physically with Daisy instead… and he wondered if he could feasibly get away with it. God he prayed he could. Daisy could never be Jimmy, but if Thomas could just close his eyes and imagine she was him, take her while thinking of him, and never mention it to another soul so long as he walked the earth, he would be able to pull off the biggest heist of his life. 

He’d be miserable, but he’d be normal. Surrounded by family, and respected in his community. It was fair gamble, and Thomas was almost ready to pay it.   
Almost. 

Lord Grantham had graciously donated a suit to Carson for his wedding day (though it was set for September 21st, and still some time off), and Thomas had found himself roped into helping Carson fit into it while John added pieces to the set and marked places for measuring. Carson seemed quite chuffed, having never been valeted to and certainly never put into such a fancy state of dress. Despite it being 1925, Carson seemed to be eager to wed in a style of dress that would have better fitted the prior century. Frankly Thomas didn’t care, was too lost in a terrible whirl wind of his own thoughts that he could hardly see where he was pinning or what to. He wondered if Lord Grantham would donate a suit for Thomas’ wedding. If Thomas would find himself being fitted into a suit, while Carson and John looked on frowning in disapproval. 

“My god I feel like a man forty years younger!” Carson boasted, twisting this way and that to see himself better in the standing mirror that had been drug into his office to use. 

Thomas said nothing, continuing to pin. 

What if he slipped up? What if one night he accidentally said Jimmy’s name while moaning, or what if the fantasy didn’t hold? What if he grew soft while still inside of Daisy or couldn’t reach completion? Thomas shuddered. 

John caught sight of it and paused mid-brush of an ancient and dusty top hat. He stared at Thomas, waiting to see if an explanation would come for Thomas’ bizarre expression. Thomas looked away, instead focusing on hemming Carson’s vest line. 

“… Something wrong, Thomas?” John asked. Carson looked down to where Thomas was at his knees before him, focused on hemming with about ten pins stuck between his teeth. Thomas shook his head, continuing to pin. 

Carson shifted a little, pausing Thomas’ pinning to check his charcoal vest in the mirror. 

“You’ve been rather distant lately.” Carson observed, “I would have thought having that cad Kent back in the house would have made you happy.” 

Thomas shook his head, taking the pins out of his mouth so that he might properly answer Carson without spitting metal everywhere. 

“I can never be happy, Mr. Carson.” Thomas replied, and he could not keep the bitterness from his voice as he said it. He continued to hem Carson’s vest line as he spoke, “We both know that. I might as well make someone else happy if I can. This suit will fit me sure enough if we tailor it correctly after you use it.” 

John slowly looked up from the top hat, and when his eyes found Thomas next, they were wide with knowing. Thomas would not meet his gaze now, instead continuing to pin Mr. Carson’s vest line and keeping his eyes locked on the shimmering fabric.

“…Reconsider.” John said slowly. His tone was firm but grave. 

“I will not.” Thomas shook his head, finishing hemming Carson’s vest line and shuffling back on his knees to rise up and fetch more pins from John’s sewing box. Jimmy was using Thomas’ with Branson, now. “It’s for the best. It must be done. There’s nothing else to be said on the matter.” 

Thomas returned to his knees before Carson, know focusing on hemming his wrist lines. This was where the problem lay. Carson was absolutely massive in the shoulders, and it showed in the elbows and cuffs. Thomas was going to have to take both arms off the suit and let out the hem line in order for it to fit him correctly. Likewise, the arms would have to be taken back in a second time once Thomas was the one wearing the suit. 

John was no longer brushing the top hat. He stood stiffly, as if he were on the verge of bursting into movement but trying to think himself out of it. He caught Thomas’ eye, but only for a flash- Thomas could see the fear in his gaze. 

“Don’t lie to yourself, Thomas.” John urged, “Don’t try to be someone you cannot be.” 

Carson was watching their little dispute with mild amusement. He was too fond of John to argue against him, but clearly on Thomas’ side as Thomas intentions became clear. 

“John, I don’t even know who I am anymore.” Thomas said, for if someone had told him a year ago that he’d be courting Daisy with the intent to marry her, Thomas would have laughed himself silly. “I’m not the man I was in my youth, I’m not the man I was even two months ago. Who the hell knows who I’ll be tomorrow.” 

“You may end up hurting Daisy without meaning to.” John warned. 

But Thomas shook his head, for even if the worst did happen Thomas was damn near determined that Daisy would not suffer for it. If they were to wed, she would know before she even put a toe on the wedding aisle that Thomas had had a past with men. She would know what Thomas was facing, and she would have to accept it. If Thomas slipped up one night and said Jimmy’s name or couldn’t grow hard- Thomas would have to fucking beg and grovel for her mercy, and make it up to her by lavishing her with love and praise. It would be a ridiculous affair, something soppy, he was certain… but if it kept Daisy happy, then so be it. 

So bloody be it. 

“I won’t.” Thomas assured John even as he pinned Carson’s sleeve, “Even if the absolute worst happens, Daisy will not be sorry for it.” 

“What do you consider to be the absolute worst?” John asked, a touch annoyed at this point. 

Thomas pursed his lips but said nothing more, focusing once again on Carson’s cuff. 

“Well I for one am proud of you, Thomas.” Carson assured him, and there was gushing pride in his voice, “Very proud. You won’t regret this.” 

Behind Carson’s back, John gave Carson a dirty look and brushed his top hat with a vicious streak. 

“Fine, propose to her.” John said, annoyance still clear in his voice, “But before you do it, tell Jimmy. He’s your best friend, he’ll want to know.” 

Thomas blinked, considering the prospect. Perhaps alerting Jimmy would be a good thing- Jimmy would recognize that he needed to get a girl too. That both of them needed to put aside childish things. It would likewise be good for Jimmy to recognize that Daisy was Thomas’ mol, that she was about to be much more than his mol, and that she deserved Jimmy’s respect. If Jimmy was a good friend, he’d taken Daisy under his wing and make peace with her. 

“Fair enough.” Thomas mumbled through a mouthful of pins. 

“Don’t let him talk you out of it.” Carson warned. “That rouge won’t understand the value of marriage. Why pay for the milk when you can have the cow for free?” he sneered in clear contempt.

John let out a haggard sigh and promptly stopped brushing Carson’s top hat in an act of defiance. Carson was too busy being smug in the mirror to notice. 

~*~

It took Jimmy four more days to return, and by the time that he did rain was imminent in the sky. Massive black thunderheads were rolling over Grantham, but for some reason they did not seem content to fall just yet. It was as if they were waiting for something, as if _everything_ was waiting for something. As if the entire universe were now waiting on tenterhooks for Thomas to tell Daisy the full truth and propose to her. 

As if time itself were crawling to a pause, the hands of a clock maker going extra slow to push them into place. 

But eventually push came to shove and the back door of the servant’s hall opened with a clatter of feet and the peel of an extra loud clap of thunder. Warm, wet wind blew into the servant’s hall; rain was yet to fall but it surely would do so before the night was out. Thomas stood at Jimmy’s piano, sitting upon the bench and idly stroking the keys. He tried to play a piece, but couldn’t remember the tune in its completion and sighed. It was just as well, his playing was probably shit. He didn’t have Jimmy’s flair (no one had Jimmy’s flair).

“Back-!” Jimmy rounded the corner to the servant’s hall, and though Thomas did not make to turn around on the piano bench he heard the telltale sound of Jimmy shrugging out of a coat. “I’ve got a bit of time on me hands before Mr. Branson wants me to unpack- something came up in Manchester he’s dying to tell Lady Mary about, it’s all a load of waffle….”

Jimmy broke off. Thomas still did not turn around. 

“You alright?” Jimmy sounded quite nervous, and Thomas’ heart strings twisted.   
He didn’t want Jimmy to be nervous. 

“I have a lot on my mind.” Thomas admitted. 

Jimmy’s footsteps drew closer, till Thomas could smell the peppermint and Brilliantine that seemed to surround him always. The piano bench squeaked underneath new weight as Jimmy sat down with him. 

“What were you playing?” Jimmy asked, curious. 

“Your berceuse.” Thomas murmured. 

Jimmy stilled, just in sight of Thomas’ peripheral vision. Jimmy laid a hand upon the piano and moved Thomas’ right hand into the correct position. 

“You knew it was a berceuse?” 

“I’m not a fool.” 

“Bates called it a song.” 

“There’s hardly any singin’ in it.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

In consolidation of John’s silliness, Jimmy played a spritely jig with one hand; he paused when he noticed Thomas was far from elated. Jimmy was sensitive to Thomas’ moods… but that was just as well. It would help Jimmy to navigate the minefield before them. 

“… I have a twin sister.” Thomas said. Jimmy’s hand slipped from the piano keys into his lap. Thomas finally turned to look at Jimmy for the first time since he’d returned, and found Jimmy’s coifed hair lightly tousled by the wind outside. Thomas found himself longing to smooth it back into place, but stopped himself. 

_You cannot be taken up in flights of fancy_ , his brain scolded him. _You have to keep to your objective before you suck both Jimmy and yourself under. Your entire future is on the line, Thomas. Do you want to see your family again, or not?_

Thomas thought of the final night in his family home- suddenly recalled with perfect clarity the image of his mother being held back around the waist by his father, screaming and crying, her arms outstretched for him even as he lay broken and bleeding on the street. 

Her pained warble echoed through his ears: _“Thomas, no-!”_

She’d wept into his father’s iron embrace, her hands scratching upon his muscular arms as she tried to free herself to get to Thomas on the streets: _“Nathan, please- my baby-!”_

Jimmy was entranced; just a tiny taste of Thomas’ past life enticing him to listen completely. 

“Yeah?” Jimmy asked breathless. Thomas nodded. 

“Yeah.” Thomas said, though he did not share in Jimmy’s smile. “Her name is Margret.” 

Jimmy nodded, but said nothing. He was too busy listening. 

“She has two boys.” Thomas went on, parroting the meagre information he knew about his family from letters to Phyllis in his youth. “Their names are Daniel and Thomas.”

It had been she to inform him; she to send him the few scant photographs he had of his family. She would never know how much that had meant to him. 

Jimmy’s smile was slipping. It seemed he’d realized Thomas’ pain. Thomas quickly pressed on, eager to get this conversation over with as fast as he could before it became too much for him to bear. He was a strong man, he could take his fair share of pain… but Margret was a different story. 

Margret was a loaded gun for him; each bullet a memory he did not want to relive. 

“I’ve not seen my sister in fifteen years.” Thomas said, his voice tightening with every word, “Her boys are eight and six. I’ve never seen them at all- I’m not allowed to, you see. Because my father thinks I’ll… corrupt them.” Thomas swallowed. 

Jimmy’s eyes were locked upon his own; there were flecks of brown in the blue. Thomas wondered if Jimmy knew they were there. 

“I miss my family, Jimmy.” Thomas whispered, swallowing several times so as to keep his voice in adequate order. 

But Thomas had never had to keep himself in check for Jimmy. Jimmy had always seemed to understand, had never taken it personally if Thomas cracked once or twice under the strain of being so viciously hated downstairs. Before Jimmy had left, Jimmy had taken it upon himself to always be Thomas’ confidant if ever he needed it. 

And he’d often needed it. 

“I was very close with my sister.” Thomas sniffed, in spite of himself. He felt his eyes stinging, “I miss her… and I’m a sick, selfish person for dragging anyone else into my troubles. I’m sick for- for thinking of marrying Daisy just to have a chance to hold my sister again. And see her boys. See Thomas- my namesake. I have a namesake.” Thomas’ voice drifted off. 

Jimmy’s hand was upon his arm, clutching him gently at the elbow.   
Thomas could not help but take comfort at the touch. 

He’d have thought that his admission to thinking of marrying Daisy would set Jimmy off, or start a row. Instead Jimmy had just grown quiet, and was letting Thomas talk. 

“I keep thinking if I do the right thing, if I marry her, my family will let me come back. My father will… understand. And I’ll be able to hold my sister-“ Thomas swallowed, “I’d lie about my happiness for the rest of my life… if I could just make my sister happy again.” 

Jimmy rubbed his arm in a soothing motion. The touch was warm, even through his livery. 

“Thomas, you’re not sick.” Jimmy murmured, pressing himself in even closer so that they were leg to leg. In the quiet of the servant’s hall, Thomas felt safe- cocooned. Like he could break without suffering the consequences. Like he could sit and take shelter under the refuge of Jimmy’s arm till he had strength to stand again. 

“You want to be with your family, who doesn’t?” Jimmy shrugged, “My family are all dead, save for two cousins in Whales. I of all people should understand.” but he leaned in at this, “But you have something special already here. Something you’ve made yourself… and lying to Daisy won’t change who you are. What you are. It’ll all end up in a massive explosion if you try and marry her. You can’t keep lying forever.” 

“Maybe I can.” 

“But would you want to?” Jimmy asked. Thomas was the one to shrug now, sniffing again. He hastily wiped his eyes before moisture could collect. 

“No, but-“ 

“Then don’t do it.” Jimmy said quickly. “Life is about doing what you want, not what you have to. It’s far too short to spend in misery-“ 

“But my family-“ 

“Thomas, what are you going to do when the mirage shatters?” Jimmy asked, his voice growing more hardened by concern with the minute. His grip on Thomas’ elbow was tightening, as if he was trying to anchor Thomas back to earth. “What are you going to do when the whole truth comes out into light?” 

“I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, for he had yet to confess to Daisy the entire ugly truth, “I just don’t know, Jimmy.” 

“You _know_ you can’t marry Daisy.” Jimmy murmured in his ear, “Even if you do love her, it’s only like you love your sister… and what tosser marries their sister? Certainly not you. You’re not a tosser.” 

_What a comforting thought_ , Thomas wondered bleakly. 

“Besides,” at this Jimmy leaned even more till his mouth was right upon Thomas’ ear. 

_Oh Jesus_ \- Thomas thought in a terror, his heart picking up at the warm moist heat that suddenly enveloped his lobe, _If you get any closer you’ll be in my lap_. 

“Keep this between the pair of us, but Andy’s actually interested in Daisy.” 

Thomas snorted. This was far from a secret to him. Thomas turned, giving Jimmy and affectionate smile. They were so close their noses were almost touching. 

Dear god, Thomas could not help but think, You are a beauty and a wonder. 

“Yeah, I know-right?” Jimmy laughed softly, as if he could hear Thomas’ thoughts and were agreeing with them, “Andy’s jerking on her hard, you have to give him a chance. Thinks her ginger biscuits are something straight from heaven- I swear I’ve seen him write love sonnets.” 

“Are they any good?” Thomas asked. 

“No, they’re shit.” and they both snorted with laughter, their heads bowed; their foreheads nearly touched, “I thought I might iron one ought and sneak it into his lordship’s paper through Mr. Branson. We can hide them all around the library and make Andy a famous author by noon.” 

“Oh god.” Thomas imagined Lord Grantham, puzzled over his selection of _The Times_ now containing a rather lurid poem about ginger biscuits. 

“It’s not fair to him, when he actually loves Daisy.” Jimmy murmured, “And he’s not the only one missing out-“ 

_Missing out?_   
Thomas sat back a little, the smile slipping from his face.   
Jimmy was still smiling, still leaning, but as he saw Thomas growing concerned he back up at once. 

“What do you mean by that?” Thomas asked, confused.   
But Jimmy didn’t seem to be capable of answering. 

Who on earth was missing out? Were there two men eager to court Daisy and Thomas only knew about one? Or was Jimmy referring to himself? And if he was, who was Jimmy missing out on? Thomas was almost positive Jimmy had no urge to court Daisy. 

“I- it’s just that- well damnit I need you a bit more than she does, surely.” Jimmy snorted. “We’re best mates.” 

A scowl grew on Thomas’ face. 

Well this was all good and fine- Jimmy got to have everything he wanted and Thomas was stuck with the half dish and cold cream. So long as Jimmy got his own end squirreled away, what did it matter that Thomas was stuck in perpetual loneliness? 

“Well isn’t that good for you?” Thomas pulled back from Jimmy- their legs were no longer touching, “Forgive me for thinking of making a future for myself that doesn’t revolve around pining for you. I guess you just like having me at your beck and call-“ 

“It’s not like that-“ Jimmy scoffed, impatiently. 

“Then what’s it like, Jimmy?” Thomas asked, his tone turning icy. It certainly was a reciprocated affection, of that Thomas was certain. Jimmy pursed his lips, sensing the turn in conversation. He tried to salvage it as best as he could. 

“I only meant that our bond is more important than any stupid connection you have with-“ 

“You mean you getting yours is more important than me being happy?” Thomas corrected him. “Yes?” 

Jimmy’s face fell completely; he stared at Thomas agape. 

“That’s rather selfish, don’t you think?” Thomas’ tone was calm but his expression was growing close to livid. “After all I’ve already endured for your sake? Or are you forgetting last Christmas?” 

Jimmy paled, looking away. 

“I don’t blame you for any of it, Jimmy.” Thomas assured him at once, for it was critical that Jimmy know this. “I hardly hold you responsible for my own ridiculous emotions- but I cannot go on living this way and expect to call it a life. I’m sorry if the way I choose to build my future offends you or puts Andy a disadvantage, but I have to do what I have to do to get back to my family. To get back to my life.” 

Jimmy was yet to speak, his complexion ashen despite his usual golden glow. 

“There’s no living in me pining for you, Jimmy.” Thomas whispered. “You can never give me what I want. I have to accept what that means.” 

When Jimmy declined to comment again, Thomas rose from the piano bench heading for the kitchens. He figured Daisy might still be working at the stove- 

“Wait-!” 

A tight, hot grip encompassed his gloved hand. Thomas paused mid-stride, looking over his shoulder to find Jimmy twisted around on the piano bench, wide eyed and panicking. 

“I just- it’s-“ Jimmy spluttered, but nothing else came out. He was rendered mute as he understood the finality of the situation. 

“… It’s for the best, Jimmy. We all settle down one day. Isn’t that what you said?” Thomas asked. 

Jimmy swallowed, speechless. Thomas pulled his hand free. 

“… It’s for the best Jimmy.” Thomas murmured. “You’ll see that in the end.” 

Jimmy gaped, his hand limp in his lap as he looked from Thomas, to his hand, to the floor. Thomas wished he could console him longer, but the hour was growing late and he needed to speak with Daisy- to tell Daisy everything- before the rain opened up and poured down. This would be a roof top conversation, and no mistake. 

Thomas left the servant’s hall, for the kitchen; with every step he took, his future (his family) hung in the balance. 

~*~

Daisy had a feeling that when it finally rained it would absolutely flood the abbey; she’d already sent the scullery maids out for wood in case it happened over night. She’d get Thomas to tell the hall boys to throw a tarp over the logs as soon as they were done. 

Dinner was done and dusted without incident; Mrs. Patmore was elbows deep in the pantry going over freshly capped jars of preserves that needed to be date marked and consumed. Daisy hung pots and pans back on the wall, her hands washed and her face slightly sweaty from the exertion of the upstairs dinner. She’d just put together a tray to send up to Mr. Branson’s room- he’d arrived too late for supper. 

Jimmy Kent was back, no doubt filling Thomas’ ear with tall tales. Daisy scowled at the thought of Thomas being bothered by Jimmy when it was clear Thomas was so heavily preoccupied. If Jimmy were a true friend, he’d be there for Thomas in his time of need. Daisy believed this firmly. 

She was therefore pleasantly surprised when she looked up from hanging another pot on the wall to see Thomas standing in the doorway of the kitchen, exhausted but entirely focused on her. 

“Long day?” Daisy asked, noting the deep bags underneath Thomas’ lovely gray eyes and the way he seemed to be swaying on his feet. He needed coffee; Daisy leaned over to check her kettle to find it still halfway full from the last batch. 

“I’m very tired.” He admitted, but when Daisy made to pour him a cup of coffee, Thomas stopped her with an outstretched hand. He was pensive, every gesture he made weighted with thought. Daisy watched him, unsure of what he was going to say or do next as Thomas slowly dropped his hand back to his side and bowed his head. 

“Daisy, I need to talk to you in private.” Thomas murmured, and Daisy’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s… important.” 

The grave look upon his face unnerved her. Made her think of Jimmy and his scowls, of Mrs. Patmore and how she’d urged Daisy to drop her love for Thomas from the get-go, of their conversation in the Butler’s pantry and how Thomas had sworn that if Daisy would only give him time… he’d give her the rest. 

“I understand.” Daisy said; she pulled off her apron to lay it atop the kitchen island, and followed Thomas out of the room. 

Up they went, side by side, abandoning the servant’s passages in the late hour to walk up the main stairs just like the family; Daisy knew they were headed for the roof top and was not surprised when Thomas lead her into the familiar locked passageway. The last time they come up to the roof had been over six months ago- what an odd sixth months they’d been. Daisy felt almost like she were inhabiting some strange dream world whenever she was near Thomas. When his lips fell upon her own, she was taken up by flights of fancy, looking towards the future and what she imagined her life to be. Before, she’d seen herself growing old on Mr. Mason’s farm with William- or some other country lad if she ever got the time. Now, Daisy only saw Thomas by her side, and the house they’d keep together. She saw them leaving service side by side- saw them taking up Mr. Mason’s farm to run it with such efficiency that even William would be proud. Daisy could even imagine their children- a boy, strong and proud with Thomas’ smart stare and black hair…. a girl that Daisy could dote on and tie ribbons onto her dresses. She’d never told anyone about these fantasies, had kept them so deeply lock in her head that sometimes they were a secret even from herself. But she thought of them now as Thomas lead her to the rooftop, and they stepped out under a warm summer’s night sky. The clouds were heavy, full of impending rain, and blocked out the stars. But Daisy could imagine them there, could see them even beyond the gloom as the softest peel of thunder echoed across the land. A A slight wind plucked at Daisy’s mauve dress and the tails of Thomas’ under butler jacket. 

Thomas had stopped walking. He was leaning against the railing of the roof, looking so pale and ill he might keel over at any minute should Daisy press him. 

“You look ready to fall over.” Daisy said, hoping the slight edge of humor in her voice would help ease the tension in the atmosphere. It didn’t. 

“I am ready to fall over.” Thomas mumbled. 

Daisy took a step forward, and despite the slight jump that rippled through Thomas when she touched his skin, she reached forward into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out both the cigarette pack and the silver lighter that she knew would be there. She selected a cigarette for Thomas to take, and he perched it between his lips with shaking fingers as she flicked the lighter and held the tiny flame to its fresh end. In the light, Thomas appeared like a corpse, his high cheekbones sunken in to create a gaunt expression as he sucked in deep on his cigarette and hollowed his cheeks. Daisy stepped back, allowing him to blow out a long thin stream of smoke as he took a minute to steady his nerves. 

Whatever he needed she would give him. She slipped his cigarette pack and lighter back into his jacket. 

“…This story is not pretty Daisy, and I don’t expect you to understand or to even like me after I’m finished.” Thomas began, and so grave was his voice that Daisy did not even make to reprimand him for insisting she wouldn’t like him, “But if you… if you honestly…” Thomas sucked on his cigarette again, his voice turning bleak, “If you want a future with me, if that’s what you desire-“ he coughed a bit on his smoke. 

Daisy had never seen him cough. 

“You have to know. I won’t…. I won’t start this with lies.” 

_Oh my god_ , Daisy thought in a sudden flash of insight, _He’s actually thinking about marrying me! Oh my god-_

No wonder Thomas looked ready to topple over. He was working up his courage. Daisy’s heart pounded wildly in her breast, and she took a deep steadying breath to try and control her nerves. 

“I’m listening.” She said, with as mature a voice as she could muster. 

Thomas paused in smoking his cigarette- and Daisy realized with a start that he’d been sucking so hard on the thing that it was already gone. He cast it aside, over the edge of the roof,   
to blow out a long stream of smoke that grazed away in the summer wind. 

“Daisy-“ his voice was strained; Thomas rubbed his hands wearily over his face, “Do you remember when I was nearly sacked without a reference?” 

“I do.” 

“You never knew why, but plenty of other people did.” Thomas was using his hands like dividers, laying out facts between them as Daisy listened raptly. She felt like the secrets of the universe were opening up to her, “And you’ll recall when we were young, and I was such a bastard to you-“ 

Thomas caught her eye, and there was terrible fear in his gaze. Terrible, squashing fear. He looked like he were facing down the barrel of a gun, “Do you want to know why? The reason for all my nastiness and spite?” 

Daisy nodded, sensing that if she tried to speak she would fail. 

Thomas was white now, even with the lack of light, Daisy could see there was no blood in his face. 

“I’m… um…” Thomas mumbled, but then he gave an almighty shudder and hit his knees. 

Daisy dove at once, terrified for him as he nearly fainted; she grabbed him by the shoulders to stop his fall, to keep him upright even as Thomas sucked in haggard breath after breath. 

“For gods sake, Thomas-!” Daisy whispered, deeply afraid for the man before her as she cupped his soaking face in her hands. He was dripping in a cold sweat, “For gods sake just tell me what’s wrong. I promise I’ll listen all the way to the very end.” 

Thomas shuddered again, nodding slowly. They crouched upon the roof until Thomas seemed to gather his strength back, and as he reached up to take the edge of the roof in hand, Daisy helped him to his feet. Thomas brushed a slight bit of dirt off his knees, taking a moment to remember himself as he ran a hand through his slicked back hair. A few fronds fell in front of his eyes, making him look younger. 

Daisy kept a grip on his arm, determined not to let him fall a second time.   
She could hardly believe he’d fallen at all. 

“… I’m not like other men.” He said in a rush.   
Daisy shook her head, still unclear.

“How are you different?” she asked, hoping for more detail. 

“I’m… attracted…” but Thomas cut off at this, grimacing painfully to start again, “I’ve had… in the past…” 

But it seemed he didn’t know how to say what needed to be said. Daisy rubbed his arm as soothingly as she could, and winced in empathy when she felt him shaking beneath her touch. 

“Relationships.” Thomas finally bit out, “With other…men.” 

Daisy blinked. 

She’d clearly not heard him right, or if she had, she did not understand.   
“I don’t understand.” Daisy said, not unkindly. “Could you… could you explain more.” 

Thomas looked ready to faint a second time. 

“You don’t have to go into great detail!” Daisy urged him, holding his arm tight, “Just… just a little more clarification would be nice, that’s all.” 

Thomas swallowed, painfully, taking in a deep and shaking breath as he nervously searched Daisy’s face. For what, she did not know, but she smiled sweetly at him all the same. 

“Okay.” Thomas said, and he squared himself up as best he could to once more use his hands like dividers. He laid them before her, even as she held onto his arm. 

“You and William, yes?” Thomas offered. 

“Yes?” Daisy asked, unsure of where this was going. 

“Alfred and Ivy. Yes?” 

“Yes?” 

“Mr. Bates and Mrs. Bates. Yes?” 

“Yes?”

“Me-“ Thomas pointed to himself, only to let his hand fall back down, “And another man.” 

Daisy stared. 

William had loved her and asked her to wed, Alfred had been utterly besotted with Ivy, enough so that he’d left Downton entirely when he’d lost her to Jimmy. Mr and Mrs. Bates were inseparable- bound together by a love so strong that it seemed nothing could ever tear them apart. Now Thomas was adding himself to that category, but with another man. 

Daisy opened her mouth, about to say _“I don’t understand”_ a second time, when an odd thought dawned upon her: 

What if Thomas was _attracted_ to other men? What if Thomas had _loved_ other men? What if Thomas had even wanted to _marry_ other men? 

It was completely insane, it defied all logic and reason- at least on the surface. Only men and women could get married, only men and women could bear children together and share households as god intended- but Daisy had heard whispers in the work houses of different kinds of men. Of different kinds of women. Of men who’d been caught kissing other men in the dark; of women who’d chased after other women and courted them as if they were men. It was wrong, sick, and vile- clearly a deformation of the mind or a malady of the spirit. _Homosexuals_ , her uncle had called them... and she'd prayed she'd never meet one. 

And then Daisy thought of Denker, and Lady Rose’s wedding six months prior. Of how she’d called Thomas a lavender and caused him such horrible distress that he’d had to run for the upstairs. Of how Mr. Bates, Mrs. Bates, and Ms. Baxter had all shouted for Denker to be quiet- that you couldn’t say such things out loud. Daisy thought of Mrs. Patmore, calling Thomas a ‘troubled soul’, insisting that he wasn’t for her despite him being perfectly fit for courting. Daisy thought of Gregory the hall boy, and how he’d always had a snide word for Thomas when he sucked on the tip of his pen in thought or re-slicked his hair to keep in down right before dinner. 

She thought of how William and Thomas had constantly butted heads, how William had urged her that Thomas was not what she thought. Of how Mr. Carson had been heard shouting at Thomas from the top of his lungs one night in the fall of 1920, screaming that Thomas should be horsewhipped for doing _something_ , though no one would say what. 

Daisy had been standing in the kitchen next to Mrs. Patmore when they’d heard Carson screaming. Mrs. Patmore had sat down a list for the following nights savories, gone into the pantry, and not come out for two hours. It was as if she’d not want to hear Carson screaming; as if it had been too much for her to bear. 

Thomas was still waiting for her to speak.   
He was terrified. Now Daisy could gather why. 

“You mean to say…” Daisy murmured, just to make sure she’d understand all of this completely, “You mean to say you’ve… been in love with other men, in the past?” 

“Yes-!” Thomas said, and it was with such an exhausted- exhilarated- rush that it seemed a great weight had been lifted from his chest. Daisy just continued to listen, now avidly interested (and rather disgusted) as if they were two gossiping scullery maids going over a piping hot scandal. She suddenly wanted to know more- to know everything. Thomas was a secretive soul; Daisy barely knew a thing about him despite having loved him for six months (and indeed years before). It was as if she’d been let into not just a book, but a library to Thomas’ life. She wanted to read every book, to learn every word by heart.

“Tell me more-!” She urged; Thomas gaped at her, astonished. 

“I- the reason I was such a bastard to you was because I was bouncing back from a really horrid break up- it’s the reason I stole twenty four bottles of wine! I was trying to drink it all away- to forget it-!” Thomas spluttered. 

“That sounds awful-“ Daisy wondered; some color was starting to flush back into Thomas’ face. “So you were just teasing William because you were hurting?” 

“Yes!” Thomas cried out, looking as if Daisy had broken the padlock to his jail cell. He was on the verge of smiling, “Yes, you see? And I was so angry because William could easily court you and be happy- but how could I ever be happy when the one I loved was not only gone, but another man! And no one would ever understand, or let us court-“ Thomas scoffed. 

Daisy cut him off, something bugging her immensely. 

“Thomas, is that what it means- to be a lavender? Is that why everyone was mad at Denker?” Daisy asked. 

“Yes.” Thomas gushed, “Yes that’s exactly it.” 

“So you’re a homosexual?” Daisy added, for further clarification. Thomas steeled himself, his jaw gritting tight. 

“Yes.” He said, and Daisy could hear the tension in his voice. 

_Dear god_ , Daisy thought in disgust, _How horrifying_.

“Why did you nearly get fired without a reference?” Daisy demanded, “What happened? Just- tell me the entire thing. Tell me now.” 

Thomas let out a tiny noise of distress and despair, running a hand brusquely through his hair so that it stuck up at weird angles as he tried to put together the words. 

Given what Daisy knew now, she was certain the story was going to be a wild one. 

“Okay- aha-!” Thomas let out the tiniest bubble of a laugh, though none of this was funny, “Right. Okay. You see-“ Thomas gestured, once again looking on the verge of feinting as Daisy waited to hear what he was going to say. “D’you remember when Jimmy arrived in the house? In 1920?” 

“Go on.” Daisy said, nodding. 

But Thomas did not go on. Instead he dropped his hands, his hair still sticking up in odd place as he looked out over the rail of the rooftop and out into the dark night. His nerves were disappearing to be replaced by something else- something somber- and it suddenly made the moment that much more poignant. 

“From the very first minute that I saw Jimmy, I was blown away.” Thomas admitted. 

Daisy didn’t know what to make of that. 

“O’Brien, she’d always known about me. What I was.” Thomas shrugged, now quite morose as the story unwound, “She saw the look on my face, and knew she could sink me with Jimmy. She lied to me, and told me that Jimmy… that Jimmy was like me.” Thomas paused tentatively, “That he liked me. That Alfred was telling her how sick and tired he was of hearing Jimmy sing my praises-“ and at this he looked away again into the dark of the night. 

“Wait-“ Daisy stopped him, more secrets dawning upon her at the wistful expression upon Thomas’ face.“You _loved_ Jimmy?” 

Thomas pursed his lips, slowly turning back around to look at her. It was as if they were seeing one another for the first time. 

_“… Sometimes what people feel on the inside shines out through their eyes.” Thomas had said so long ago_. 

Misery shone out of his eyes. Sweetest, saddest, deepest misery... and suddenly Daisy's disgust was beginning to melt away. 

“Daisy, I was so in love with him- it physically hurt me to look at him.” Thomas admitted. “I was so sick with love- I couldn’t eat or sleep.” 

Daisy’s mouth opened, though no words came out. 

“I was so in love with him, I saw signs where there were none.” Thomas closed his eyes and looked away, but the misery was still palpable in his face. 

Daisy knew how that felt; she’d been far too eager to believe there was a chance for her with Alfred. Every word he’d spoken to her had been like a pearl of light in her normally dreary day. She’d collected those words together and strung a necklace with all the kindnesses he’d shown her. She’d worn them around her neck all through the day- held onto to them when the moments of trail became too much to bear. She reached out, and rubbed Thomas’ arm gently. Just something to show him that she was there. Her disgust was utterly gone now; the reason for Thomas' sickness was clear. 

“When you’re like me, you can’t speak out.” Thomas explained, his tone as soft as the summer wind that blew around them, “So I watched and waited instead. For months. Praying that I was correct. That he loved me as much as I loved him. And one night, O’Brien got into my head. I was weak, I was low. She told me that it wasn’t a secret. I kept thinking that she wouldn’t lie to me. Not about something about this- not when she knew what would happen to me if I made a mistake. But you see, Daisy-“ Thomas turned back around to look at her again. There was that misery, in his eyes, “That’s exactly why she lied about it. Because she wanted me gone.” 

“Gone?” Daisy repeated, still unsure what Thomas meant. 

Thomas reached up his hands, and Daisy’s heart fluttered lightly in her breast as he slowly cupped her cheeks in his palms. In the sixth months of their courtship, Thomas had never touched her in such a way. He’d hugged her, cupped her neck or her waist, held her hand- but never her face. Never in such a loving and firm away. 

Now _she_ was the one on the verge of fainting. 

“Daisy…” Thomas whispered, stroking her plump cheeks with his broad thumbs, “Men like me, men who love other men… we go to prison. To asylums. To Gaol.” Thomas shuddered at the hated name, “Our parents despise us and abuse us. Our friends desert us and betray us. Our lives are filled with pain and violence…. and make no mistake.” Thomas blinked rapidly. Daisy shuddered when she saw moisture there; moisture, misery, and truth. “If the wrong person finds out… we die.” 

For a minute there was only silence. 

“So you see, Daisy… the night Alfred took Ivy to the pictures, I made a terrible mistake.” Thomas carried on after a second. Now Daisy found herself quite afraid, wondering what on _earth_ Thomas had done in his dire love for Jimmy under O’Brien’s lying thumb. 

“What did you do?” 

“I went into Jimmy’s room, when he was asleep… and I kissed him.” 

Daisy’s brow crinkled, and though it was not nice she found herself wanting to say _“Why did you do that, you egg-head?”_

But then she thought of what must surely have happened next, when Jimmy had no doubt woken up and found Thomas in his room _kissing him_ , and shuddered again. 

“God…” Thomas closed his eyes, his hands slipping from Daisy’s cheeks to brace overhang behind him. The misery in him was so palpable that Daisy could not stand to let him go without comfort. She leaned forward, holding him about the chest to bury her face in his dark green vest. “He was so angry, Daisy. I thought he was going to strike me.” 

She imagined what a horrifying moment that must have been for Thomas. To walk into a room so full of hope and love only to find a monster waiting inside. To kiss someone you adored, only to be shoved back and watch in terror as they raised a hand to strike you. It was like something out of a nightmare. 

Daisy let go of Thomas chest to look up into his face. His eyes were closed; he was lost in a memory- no doubt seeing it all in his mind once again. 

Daisy reached up to stroke his face. To bring him back out of that memory before it swallowed him whole. Thomas jolted, shocked by her touch. She could feel the prickle of a shadow on his face, where stubble was forming. She wondered if he had to shave every morning in order to avoid Carson striking a match off his chin. 

“In the days that followed, O’Brien kept goading Jimmy into thinking that if he didn’t punish me thoroughly everyone would suspect he was like me.” Thomas continued on after a moment of reflective silence, “So Jimmy wanted me sacked-“ 

“Without a reference.” Daisy finished. 

“Yes.” 

“But… What happened then? Because you weren’t sacked and you were even promoted.” Daisy wondered, for here Thomas was standing, far from sacked and the under butler. How had Thomas gone from Carson screaming at the tops of his lungs that he was unnatural and foul to being his assistant? 

“John.” Thomas said with a smile. Daisy wondered who he was talking about until Thomas continued on to say, “John Bates. He saw me in my moment of darkness, and he saved me. He got me to confess one of O’Brien’s darker secrets and he used it against her to make her convince Jimmy to let me go without a reference. But then… he also went to his lordship, and suddenly his lordship was eager I stay on…. and they had to find a position for me. So they did.” 

Thomas shrugged, looking rather bitter about all of it. 

“It’s superfluous, and ridiculous. I’m unneeded and unwant-“ But Daisy put her fingers over his mouth to stop him even as he spoke. 

Thomas just smiled, and continued on. He mumbled against her fingers until she dropped them: “Jimmy was furious until he was likewise promoted to first footman. A bargain for a bargain, but it kept me at Downton and Jimmy happy.” 

But there was still more to be explained, for around the time of Master Crawley’s death, Thomas and Jimmy had become incredibly close. So close, in fact, that it seemed as if they were in each other’s pockets. That nothing could tear them asunder save for the very will of god. How had this happened if Jimmy had hated Thomas for kissing him? Had tried to get him sacked without a reference? 

“But you and Jimmy are so close…” Daisy murmured, thinking of how Jimmy seemed almost possessive of Thomas at times, unwilling to let Daisy even sit next to him if it meant giving up his chair, “How can you be such good friends when he was so viciously cruel to you? T’hate you for lovin’ him?” 

Thomas seemed to have been expecting this, “Do you remember the Thirsk fair?” He asked, “When I get pounded into the dirt?” 

“That were nasty.” Daisy shuddered at the memory of being interrupted at the game stalls by Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore rushing past. Alfred had been with them, leading the charge- they’d looked like the Devil was after them. Jimmy had been ahead of them all, with Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley, screaming about how someone might be dead if they didn’t hurry the hell up. Daisy and Ivy had meant to follow, had wanted to help with whatever crisis was occurring, until Mrs. Hughes (white in the face) had stopped them hard with a firm hand. 

_“Stay here!” Mrs. Hughes had shouted, “You’re not to see this, you’re too young-“_

And off they’d flown again, vanishing into the outcrop of the woods where a far off bridge was slowly cloistering with people. 

Mr. Branson had come running back with that pesky maid Edna to fetch the wagonette a half hour later, and had been scorning Jimmy something fierce. 

_“He thinks I’m blind- I saw the way Thomas was looking at him!” Mr. Branson had snapped as he helped Edna up onto the front seat of the wagonette, “I’ll bet you anything Jimmy’s got something t’do with this. Thomas doesn’t get into fights!”_

Daisy and Ivy had been utterly confused until they’d watched Alfred and Branson helping Thomas climb onto the back of the wagonette. His face has been so swollen, so blackened and bloody, that Daisy wouldn’t have been able to recognize him had it not been for the fact that she’d arrived with him to the fair and knew him to be wearing a blue pinstripe suit. 

Jimmy had been in an absolute state when they’d arrived back at the abbey, demanding to talk to Dr. Clarkson alone as soon as he’d finished attending to Thomas. No one could put him off, tell him to leave it be- Jimmy had been about ready to climb a wall by the time that Clarkson finally appeared, his sleeves covered in blood but his hands well washed. Clarkson had spent a good hour talking Jimmy down in Mrs. Hughes sitting room, explaining to him that despite the fact Thomas had five broken ribs, a cracked skull, a broken cheek bone, and a shattered ankle- yes. _He would live_. 

Even then, Jimmy had been nervous. He’d wanted to see Thomas, to talk to him, but Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Hughes had flat out denied him entry for three days until the worst of Thomas’ concussion could wear off. One the day (on it seemed, the very hour) that Jimmy had gained access into Thomas’ room, Master Crawley had been fatally killed in a horrific car crash on the way home from the hospital. 

And then everyone had been too swept up in that affair to wonder why it was that Jimmy and Thomas were now suddenly in one another’s pockets. 

“Jimmy were drunk that day, flashing his money about… and the village group were furious he’d beaten them at the tug-of-war.” Thomas explained, “So they cornered him under the bridge by the fairground and tried to crack his face open. Unfortunately for them, I’d followed Jimmy because I’d seen that he was legless and I was worried he was going to do something stupid like fall into the road and get run over by a damn motorcar.” Thomas cursed at this with a dark humorless laugh, “Instead I find him with his hands bound behind his back and a thug or two trying to split his lip. So I jerked him free, told him to run-“ 

“And took his place.” Daisy said with great wonder. 

Thomas nodded, smiling. 

_My god_ , Daisy could not help but think, _You’re so very brave_. 

She wondered at what it must have felt like- to jerk the one he loved free only to take his place. To stare down the barrel of the gun with such courage even after his ribs were broken and his skull was cracked. To paint the brick with blood and still not care. To think only of the one he’d saved- and their happiness. 

No wonder Jimmy had been in such a state when they’d taken Thomas home. That beating had been meant for _him_. 

“… Y’see-“ Thomas murmured, as Daisy listen with rapt attention, “Jimmy thought that I’d only liked him because of the way he looked. He didn’t realize that I loved him until I took that beating for him. Once he figured that out…” Thomas shrugged. “Once he understood that I wasn’t interested in chasing him around like a cat to a vole- that I only wanted to be near him and love him… t’care for him, even if only as a friend… once he understood that, he never wanted to be parted from me. And so he wasn’t.” 

Thomas smiled at this, and though there was nothing funny to observe he even let out the tiniest little laugh. Daisy treasured it, reaching up to touch his lips. They were carved as if from marble- truly gorgeous things. She could kiss them for a lifetime and not find it wasted. 

But there was still one more question. Indeed, the most important question.   
Why, if Thomas loved Jimmy, had Thomas begun to court Daisy? What had changed? 

“Why did you… with me… if…?” But Daisy couldn’t complete the sentence. Couldn’t even say the sentence. Too much was riding on it- an entire future stretched out before her as Thomas’ happy expression began to melt away into misery again. 

He nodded to himself. 

“When Jimmy left I was a mess, Daisy.” Thomas murmured. She clung to him, in that moment, soaking up every word he had to say, “I was broken. I was an add in a magazine. A _“Choose Your Own Path”_. It promised me that it could change me, make me more like other men. I knew I would never be happy; I figured Jimmy would find a girl, settle down… but the one thing- the only thing- I’d ever wanted was gone. I knew I’d never be happy again. So, I went to London for the therapy- the electrotherapy.” 

Daisy sucked in a breath, her eyes widening with knowing as she remembered how Thomas had looked so horrible, back when he’d told her there was a light shining in her eyes. How he’d walked with a limp, and had been so terribly pale. Daisy thought of the burns on his chest- how he’d run away to London after an argument with Carson… 

It must have been an argument about Jimmy, or about Thomas being a homosexual and courting Daisy- Thomas must have panicked and wanted to make sure he’d done a thorough job. 

“Oh Thomas…” Daisy whispered. “You- You did all of this, for me?” She asked. “You went to London for me, last Christmas?” 

Thomas nodded. 

A wave of love, of truest burning love, knocked into Daisy and nearly caused her to stumble. She thought of Thomas under the bridge for Jimmy, now under the electric current for her. How Thomas had put himself through such pains to achieve his goal, to be good to her even when it wasn’t in his nature. Even when he was sick. Even when everyone kept telling him that he couldn’t- that she couldn’t- that both of them were ridiculous for even trying and fools to think a future could be built between them. 

But they were wrong. They were all wrong. Thomas knew that- _And I know it too!_ Daisy thought with pride. She hugged him tight around the chest, pressing herself into his vest, directly atop where she knew the scars of his burns were. Scars that were all for her, and his love for her. In that moment, she loved him more than any man she’d ever loved in her entire life. Even more than Alfred. 

 

“Thomas-“ She choked, “I love you so much.” 

His arms came around her, encompassing her in an incredible wall of warmth that cut out the nipping wind- that blocked the hateful voices which told her she’d never be pretty enough, smart enough, good enough to warrant the attention of a man. To Thomas she’d always been smart and beautiful- had shown her her own worth even when others had denied it existed. Even when he hadn’t- even when he’d been closed off and cold… no one had ever gone so far for Daisy before, put themselves through such pains just for the sake of her affections. It was the most romantic and inspiring thing that anyone had ever done for her, and she didn’t know how she would ever be able to repay Thomas- save to love him. To love him every day of his life until the cold earth took him again… and even then to follow down with him so that he’d never have to be alone again. 

Till the pain he felt from Jimmy and his prior sickness faded away to become the love he felt from Daisy. 

“I love you too.” He murmured into her hair, and she pulled back and once to look him in the eyes. To see if the misery was still there. 

It was, and she kissed him at once.   
For a minute they simply held one another, as she finally understood the sadness on his lips and where it came from. She chased it, hungrily, till both of them were out of breath and Thomas looked slightly dazed from the exertion of it all. 

“If you love me, and I love you, then that’s all that matters.” Daisy whispered fiercely. “I swear to you, that’s all that matters.” 

“But- no one will be supportive or understanding.” Thomas urged her, ever trying to be the voice of reason despite how reason damned him, “You don’t deserve to be jaded or associated with someone like me-“ 

“The others are wrong!” Daisy urged, and she’d never felt such conviction in their life. She put a hand upon Thomas’ vest, right above the slow strong beat of his heart. “You’re wonderful, kind, and brave- and I’ll never let them talk badly about you again!” 

Thomas flushed, the misery disappearing from his eyes for a moment. Daisy seized the moment as quickly as she could before it passed by idle hands. 

“I just want to be with you. I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care-!” 

“But-“ Thomas shook his head, staggered, “Aren’t you disgusted? Or put off at all by what I’ve told you?” 

“No.” Daisy said, and she surprised to find how true it was now. How little it mattered in the end, in light of Thomas’ suffering, “No, it all has to do with mercy and compassion. And maybe… maybe if you’d had more of it in your life you wouldn’t have been so nasty at first. Maybe you wouldn’t have suffered at all… and so long as I have a say in it, you’ll never suffer again. “ 

Thomas’ eyes widened.   
There was no misery in them anymore. Only disbelief, and even (dare Daisy think it) love. 

“… Daisy…” Thomas whispered her name, as if he’d never truly said it the right way before. Daisy wished he might say it a hundred times, a million times, until he spoke again and all urges to hear her name died in her mind. For nothing could compare to what came next, for what would surely come after. “Would you consent to marry me, knowing what you know now?” 

“…Are you asking me to marry you?” Daisy asked, her heart pounding wildly in her throat. Her eyes burned with hope; her fingers inched slowly up Thomas chest towards his strong shoulders, where all the world rested. 

“I am.” Thomas finally said, and there was astonishment and disbelief in his voice as if he could hardly believe he were asking it himself. 

All her life had been leading up to this moment. From the moment Daisy had first stumbled over the threshold of Downton still in rags from the work house to see Thomas and William arguing how to properly polish a candelabra. All her life, she’d prayed for a lover like Thomas. Someone strong and smart- someone honest who was determined to make things right no matter the cost. She wondered how many prayers she could lift up to god, how many thanks she could give him for delivering Thomas the strength to step back from the pain Jimmy brought him to see the love before him. For giving Thomas the fortitude to go through the pain of electrotherapy, despite the ungodly suffering it surely had put him through. Suffering for her sake, for this moment, when they could finally be together. Together, forever- and no man could put it asunder. No man could look at the burns on Thomas’ chest and say that he did not love Daisy. Not even Jimmy Kent. 

“Oh Thomas-!” The words exploded from her mouth as she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and kissed him fiercely on the mouth- once, twice, three times. “ Oh Thomas of course I’ll marry you, you daft ha’porth!” 

And when she kissed him next, it was like she’d been born again, like her feet had left the ground- until she realized with a laugh that her feet actually _had_ left the ground because Thomas was now holding her up around the waist. Holding her so tightly that she doubted they could ever be parted. 

Thomas’ heart was _pounding_ , she could feel it through the fabric of his vest and shirt. She cherished that heart, praised that heart, worshiped that heart- and how it beat on. Above all, she loved that heart. Loved it more than anyone else surely ever could. 

Even Jimmy Kent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slowly looks into the camera like I'm on "The Office"* 
> 
> Oh look.   
> A train wreck. 
> 
> *dodges the rotten fruit being thrown at me*


	19. Jimmy's Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Thomas saw were his shoes, and he knew immediately that they belonged to his father. They were large, well worn, but polished to hide the obvious scuff marks of age. Thomas’ eyes slowly slid up, from dark brown pants to olive green vest, the jacket covering a white shirt and maroon tie. 
> 
> As soon as Thomas saw his face, he had to look away at once and instead stare at a tree until he’d regained his composure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up for **triggers** , this chapter will contain a graphic flash back of **physical and emotional child abuse**. If this is something that bothers you, avoid the italicized section! 
> 
> This is another mega chapter, and one that includes a picture too. Aren't you so lucky! I kept mentioning a particular photograph so I figured that everyone ought to be able to see it too. This is an interactive fanfiction.  
> http://dementian.tumblr.com/post/130428509298/margret-baxter-neé-barrows-headshot-from-up-the 
> 
> Keep holding on people! Keep holding on. The next chapter is the big one; you have to make it through the storm to reach safer shores! Don't abandon ship just yet! 
> 
> Once again, thank you to all my readers and reviewers. I recognize at 200,000+ and growing, this fan fiction is not exactly light reading. I do hope I do it justice though. I am trying so hard to breath life into Thomas' character and past! 
> 
> (someone has to do it because apparently Fellowes is not up to the challenge)

It poured rain. Buckets of rain. Drops the size of muscadine grapes that turned every road to mud, every field to soup, every pond to an ocean. Farmers stayed indoors, smoking their pipes and reading their papers. Housewives baked pies and made preserves, constantly peeking out their curtains and wondering when the rain was going to stop. Children played on the floors of their living rooms; dogs slept by the low lit fires of their masters. Horses grew restless in their stalls. 

_When?_ the earth wondered. _When, when, when?_

Lord Grantham drank high balls in the library, reading book after book. Lady Grantham sat beside him though she indulged in tea. Lady Edith picked out new dresses for Marigold from a ladies catalogue. Mary sat by windows and pondered what Matthew would say if he knew she was courting Tom Branson with the intent to marry. Branson sat by windows and wondered what Sybil would say if she knew he was dating her older sister- if she’d laugh or be furious. 

Downstairs, Mr. Carson went over details of his impending cottage with Mrs. Hughes, the pair of the nestled up like love birds at his sherry table while they drank port and whispered over plans they might make together even in their old age. Mrs. Patmore kept herself cozy in the kitchen, making biscuits and fruit tarts as Daisy sat quiet in her corner and said not a word with a blissful smile upon her usually fretful face. For the first time since her marriage to William Mason, her ring fingers lay bare on both hands. Baxter and Moseley sat in the servant’s hall, watching one another work and wondering what the other was thinking. Andy sat slumped at the piano, silent… love sonnets never to be read clutched loosely in his clammy hands. 

Upstairs in his room, Thomas lay on his bed and toyed with a pocket watch from Barrow and Sons, wondering if he might ever return there and see his sister Margret again. He looked constantly at her picture now, taken out of its keepsake book of poetry. 

_I miss you_ , her eyes seemed to say. _Come to me, I miss you._

 

Far away at the Bates cottage, Jimmy sat on a couch clutching a cold cup of tea. A fire roared in the iron grate, a half drunk pot sat on the wooden coffee table atop a large lace doily. Anna sat beside him, her hands folded on her lap. She had nothing of comfort that she could say, no words of wisdom to find. She was too shocked. John sat in his favorite armchair, his great grandfather’s watch open atop his belly. He watched Jimmy carefully, taking in every move that Jimmy made. Every twitch. Jimmy kept his head bowed, eyes on the cold cup of tea that had once been piping hot. 

He though of London, jazz, and gin. He thought of Jack Ross and his mol Elvira. He thought of comfort, of ignorance, of quiet. He thought of how Thomas had laid down and taken it, swallowed it, accepted it… and now everything was over. 

Over. 

Jimmy swallowed around a painful lump in his throat. 

_"Then it ends."_ , Thomas had said. Surely it would end now. 

The rain continued to pour; Jimmy was convinced that at any moment the very sky would fall. The world seemed so strange, so changed, like nothing could ever make sense again. Like the very laws of gravity and motion had been broken. Surely…? 

Jimmy looked out the lace draped window of the Bate’s front room. The rain was still pouring in the dark of the night. Perhaps it would pour so much that all of them would be swept away like little bits of debris in the a flood. Perhaps Jimmy would wake up tomorrow morning and find himself alone on a dirty soggy sea of a new water world. 

You could cook pastries in a water world. Thomas would see sense then.  
Jimmy looked back down into his cold tea cup.  
_Thomas_. 

“Do not give up.” Bates murmured; Jimmy found himself torn between not wanting to listen and needing to hear every word said. “It will not last.” 

Jimmy looked up. Bates was staring him down from the armchair, “This whole facade- it won’t stand in the light of day. Thomas may not know it now, he may not want to see it… but it will break, Jimmy. It will break.” 

Jimmy nodded, but it was an absent thing and he hardly meant it. He felt almost certain that it would last. That Jimmy would go to an early grave and Thomas would rot into a corpse like state with ginger biscuits staining his fingertips. They’d cut open his coffin five hundred years later and find Thomas still covered in bits of pastry. Daisy would darken him; transform him into something that Jimmy did not understand. 

Something that did not understand Jimmy. 

“Thomas fought for you, hard.” Bates reminded him, as if Jimmy had somehow dug a hole into his brain and forgotten, “Fight for him- I know you can-“ 

“Quit patronizing me.” Jimmy’s voice was thick and toneless. He was shaken to the core and Bates would know, “I know I can fight.” 

Fighting was one thing; winning was another.  
_I’ve lost to a kitchen maid_. Jimmy could not help but think.  
Lost _what_ though… that was the real question. 

~*~

When Thomas had told Carson, Carson had practically danced a jig. He’d poured them both a glass of port and ended up drinking the pair when Thomas refused due to his alcoholism. 

When Thomas had told Mrs. Hughes, she been very withdrawn at first and looked quite pale. Then, she’d simply pursed her lips and said “If this is what you truly want then I accept it.” After that, she'd said no more. 

When Daisy had told Mrs. Patmore, she’d promptly tried to botch the whole affair by breaking Thomas’ “big secret”. When Daisy had revealed she’d already known, that she’d accepted it and thought it behind Thomas, Mrs. Patmore had promptly walked to the pantry to burst into frustrated tears. Daisy had taken it for a sign of happiness and hadn’t pressed it further. 

Phyllis had found out through Mrs. Hughes, and was now not speaking to Thomas with such cold vindictive fury that you’d have thought Thomas was responsible for pissing in her teacup or something worse. Moseley just seemed shocked; he kept running his hands through his hair (as if he even had hair) only to whisper “crikey” though no one was listening. John had found out through Carson, and had given Thomas such a look, that Thomas was convinced they were back to being enemies again. Instead, John had simply deflated and mumbled “I wish you’d reconsidered.” 

But that was the whole point. If Thomas had reconsidered even for a second, he would have chickened out and turned tail. Even now he could hardly believe he’d done the deed. The minute he’d returned to his room after proposing, he’d vomited several times into his sink and promptly passed out in his armchair with all his clothes on. He’d woken around three with a splitting headache hearing the rain pound on the window pane. He’d sat there smoking for an hour, simply waiting to see what would happen. If the earth would crack in two; if the sky would fall upon them all and smother them to death in white and gray. 

Instead time had marched on and the rain had begun to slow into a drizzle… so Thomas had risen from his armchair to re-press his livery and shave. He’d worn his father’s pocket watch, an item he usually kept locked safe in his top bureau drawer, and had stuck his sister’s picture inside his inner vest pocket next to his pack of Woodbines and his dented silver lighter. 

For some reason, he’d needed to feel the support of his family that day… despite having not seen them for fifteen years. 

_I’m doing this for you_. Thomas thought, staring at Margret’s headshot as he slipped it inside his livery. _You and you alone_. 

Thomas had kept to himself, despite the fluttering whispers that now coated the servant’s hall; his name was on every tongue. Eyes followed him when he walked down the hall. In a way Thomas had expected Daisy to be immediately unbearable. For Daisy to start annoying him and nagging him- but instead she’d just kept to her work with a small secret smile upon her face. When he passed by the kitchen door, inventory in hand, she’d glance up to see him. 

She didn’t call out to him; didn’t embarrass him. Instead she bowed her head and went back to work with that same small smile still playing at her lips. 

Thomas was grateful for her oddly adult take on the whole situation. He certainly hadn’t been expecting it. 

Bertie Pelham (the man courting Lady Edith) was returning to Downton for a ‘small, quiet dinner’ after having spent the weekend out with Branson in London. Thomas didn’t know why Pelham thought that any dinner involving both him and Branson would be classified as small or quiet seeing as the pair of them were courting the Crawley sisters. Lady Mary and Lady Edith’s rivalry was legendary below stairs… they were out to not only impress but to beat each other. 

If Thomas had been more of an empathetic man, he might have felt sorry for Branson. Instead he felt a mild acceptance along the lines of _“Well he knew what he was getting into, didn’t he?”_

Below stairs, in the sanctuary of the wine cellar, Thomas was on a mission for Carson who was busy arguing with a salesman from Thirsk who’d apparently brought the wrong kind of silver cleaner (sometimes Carson just liked to fuss and it was better to let him have at it). He’d been charged with pulling out the wines for dinner, given that Carson’s eyes were failing him and it was difficult for him to read the labels in the poor lighting. Thomas pulled out three bottles of merlot, and six bottles of pinot grigio- the Crawley’s were white wine drinkers at heart. At the same time, Carson had instructed Thomas to pull out something ‘special’ in the event of a surprise. What Carson classified as ‘special’ or as a ‘surprise’ was a mystery to Thomas, so now Thomas was stuck rooting around in the dusty shelves for something they’d never drank before that didn’t classify as disgusting (thus why they’d never drank it). 

His thoughts were interrupted by soft footfalls upon the creaky stairs overhead; a little dust shifted through the air as skirts suddenly swished upon the steps and Daisy appeared on the stoop. She had a letter in her hand, and shifted her bonnet upon her head to keep it from bumping the low laying ceiling as she stepped off the stairs to come around the corner and join Thomas in the shelves. 

Thomas shot her a nervous smile, unsure what she wanted or expected. The weight of his sister’s headshot was heavy in his pocket. 

“What says _‘Why haven’t you proposed yet? We’ve thrown you enough parties; do you not like us?’_ …” Thomas mused aloud, glancing at Daisy as he shifted an aging bottle of champagne aside to search for something more snazzy behind it. Daisy smiled, unfolding the letter in her hand so that it was laid flat, “I’m thinking a champagne. Maybe an Armand de Brignac…” Thomas pulled the gold leafed bottle out to wipe it free of dust. 

“Isn’t that more Carson’s forte?” Daisy asked. 

“He’s upstairs chewing out a salesman. I thought why not let him have at it?” Thomas quirked a smile, setting the Armand de Brignac at his feet to pull out two more bottles of it just in case. The Crawleys could drink their way through an entire cellar if they felt like it. 

“You’re so thoughtful.” Daisy joked; Thomas snorted under his breath, stomach twisting uncomfortably as he felt Daisy lean in close to him to put the softest kiss upon his cheek. 

Shocking that she would still want to kiss him even when she now knew about his past. About his leanings. About _Jimmy_. 

_Jimmy_ , Thomas’ heart bleated, only to be cut off by another ugly voice in his head. 

_Don’t you start that childish whining. He’ll get a girl soon, and now you’ve got yours. Be satisfied_. 

“What are you doing down here?” Thomas asked, curious. It was after luncheon but dinner would be started on soon. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs holding court with Lady Patmore?” 

“The Queen has released me for the moment. I’ve had a letter from Mr. Mason.” Daisy explained. 

Ah. 

Thomas looked at her, and found her waiting with an expectant smile, holding her letter with both hands. Thomas glanced down at it, and found it full of warm writing. 

“I see.” Thomas said. 

“He wants to see us.” Daisy explained, “To see you.” 

“You told him?” Thomas asked. 

“I did.” 

“You put a lot in a letter.” Thomas mumbled, wondering if the poor man had had a heart attack when he’d read of Daisy’s engagement to William Mason’s childhood tormentor. One thing was for certain, William Mason himself was probably rolling in his grave, gnashing his teeth and howling in a rage. 

“Alfred puts more.” Daisy said, which caught Thomas’ interest at once, “One time he wrote to Ivy asking her to marry him, move to London with him, and that he was going to find her a job in a fancy house because he’d become a top notch chef at the Ritz.” 

Thomas snorted in spite of himself, imagining Alfred (the silly ginger beanpole) proclaiming to Ivy that he’d sorted their future if only she might accept. 

“Dear lord, Alfred.” Thomas chuckled, rubbing at his brow a tad impatiently. He supposed the boy had never learned. He stooped over, beginning to collect his acquired wine bottles in a large straw basket he’d brought down for better carrying. Daisy helped him, pocketing her letter to gently stack each merlot and pinot grigio atop one another. The Armand de Brignac went in last, far too precious to be squash beneath other bottles. “When shall we go?” 

“Well, Mr. Branson and Mr. Pelham are going to come for supper on Sunday- tomorrow’s Friday… we could go then.” Daisy offered, “That way in case anything happens Sunday afternoon we don’t have to wait for another lull.” 

“Alright.” Thomas agreed, rising up. “It’s a little sudden but I doubt Carson will mind. He was practically dancing in his spats when I told him our news.” 

Daisy smiled, her cheeks flushing a little with color as Thomas hefted the heavy straw basket onto his arm. Daisy wiped her hands upon her apron to get rid of the dust and followed him out. 

“You take Mr. Carson, I’ll take Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy teased. 

“Who has it harder, I wonder.” Thomas could not help but mutter. 

“Well.” Daisy closed the cellar door as soon as they were off the stoop, locking it back with the key jutting out of the bolt. She handed it over to Thomas who slipped it into his pocket at once. “Mr. Carson’s already in a bad mood.” She grinned at him as she skipped off down the hallway, her step light and jaunty as she looked back over her shoulder at him. 

Thomas winced. She was absolutely right. 

~*~

Despite the fact that the rain had let up, Jimmy still felt as if there was a downpour. A bottling sensation had begun, like the pressurization of a champagne. The sugar and yeast was Jimmy’s emotion to Thomas- his link, his bond. Left on the riddling rack, turned upside down by Thomas' proposal to Daisy, Jimmy felt like he’d been left in the dark for fifteen months- left forgotten in a cold cave where no one might find him unless they had a torch and the mind to look for him. 

He’d been kicked out. Left behind. Left to rust.  
The very notion made Jimmy’s throat dry and his chest constrict. 

_Save me!_ he wanted to scream, but to whom? Who was going to save him now that Thomas was taken up with Daisy? 

Who was left to care about him if Thomas was gone? 

“Mr. Kent-!” 

Jimmy was jerked from his reverie, heart flying into his throat in a panic as the door to the boot room flew open to reveal Mrs. Hughes looking decidedly testy. 

“James-“ Her tone was stern. Jimmy looked away to the wall, unwilling to see how her eyes softened at the edges as she saw his frayed state. He knew he looked like shit- with his hair un-coiffed and his tie crooked. “Mr. Branson has been calling for you, haven’t you heard him?” 

“Oh uh…” Jimmy slid from the island table, hands quite useless at his sides, “Yes.” 

“James, are you quite well?” Mrs. Hughes asked. 

Jimmy did not answer her as she passed her by the door. He walked off down the hallway, unaware that he was going in the wrong direction. In a way it didn’t matter if he reached Branson on time. 

Jimmy suddenly had a feeling he’d be returning to London a broken man.  
He wondered if Jack Ross had use for a piano player with a bruised hand. 

~*~

The rain had turned every road into absolute mush, and despite the boots that Daisy wore she was slipping with every step she took. Thomas held onto her arm, careful with his long legged gait lest she fall and get covered in mud as they walked up the steep slope to Fox Hill Farm. The fields looked like lakes now, with stalks of corn and white jutting up like peer legs and buoys; martins were taking shelter on scarecrows, their digging grounds temporarily destroyed by the rain until it soaked into the earth. 

They had leave of absence but only for a few hours between luncheon and dinner. Daisy had already made a cart load of savories, cutting Mrs. Patmore’s work in half by doubling her own load the day before. She hadn’t seemed to mind, going through each plate in a breeze. Thomas had heard her humming from Carson’s office; Carson had been slightly dissatisfied with Thomas’ choice of Armand de Brignac ( _“One cannot pick champagne just based on the bottle, Mr. Barrow-!”_ ) and had instead made him go grab three bottles of Veuve Clicquot to put the Armand de Brignac back. The pair of them had made their way hastily to Fox Hill Farm so that Daisy might have as much time as possible with Mr. Mason… in truth Thomas cared very little one way or the other. 

It wasn’t Mr. Mason Thomas was trying to get back to. It was his own family. 

As they reached the front door, Mr. Mason suddenly appeared on the stoop, opening the door wide as if he’d been watching them approach from the front window. He was wearing a brown suit with a checkered orange tie, and when he saw Daisy his wrinkled face broke into a wide joyful grin which Daisy happily returned as she let go of Thomas’ arm momentarily to throw her arms about his neck. 

“Daisy! Oh-!” Mr. Mason coughed a little as Daisy slammed into his chest, “My darlin’ Daisy! Come inside love!” 

Daisy let go of him, wiping at the corners of her eyes; how this scene had prompted her to near tears Thomas couldn’t say, but as she stepped onto the stoop Thomas accept Mr. Mason’s handshake as best as he could. 

He couldn’t summon a smile, as best as he friend. At most, it was a grimace. It seemed to confuse Mr. Mason, who was searching his face avidly for something and not finding it. 

The weight of Margret’s head shot in his pocket comforted him. Reminded him of what was important. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Mason still kept his handshake tight and warm despite the frown that was creeping upon his face. 

“Mr. Mason.” 

“I think you can call him Thomas now. Surely?” Daisy just laughed, wiping her boots on a beaten rug outside the house before she dared to step inside. She undid her coat, hanging it upon a handy peg as Thomas and Mr. Mason followed her inside. 

“O’course.” Mr. Mason said at once; Thomas took off his coat and quickly hung it upon a peg along with his trilby hat before Daisy could offer. 

Mr. Mason was watching him all the while. 

They sat in the living room and ate a small spread of tea and biscuits, talking about possible wedding plans and what their futures might be. Or rather, _Daisy_ talked. Thomas just sat there and smiled (at least he tried to smile) while Mr. Mason watched him carefully. 

“We could go to London.” Daisy said, “I know I could get a job there, and Thomas surely could too.” 

London… home of jazz and gin. 

“We haven’t set a date just yet, we’re a little busy at the moment-“ Daisy laughed. 

Had it been Jimmy he was marrying, Thomas would have set the date at once. Jimmy would look at his watch and say _“what time?”_ and Thomas would declare, _“one hour.”_ because that’s how long it would take Thomas to fashion a wedding ring from a broken pocket watch. He’d beat the metal into submission, slip it onto Jimmy’s beautiful finger, and kiss the palms of his hands like a saint at his prayers. 

“We’re thinking a small wedding, something quiet and sensible. We’re hardly the upstairs.” 

Had it been Jimmy he was marrying, Thomas wouldn’t have cared if the wedding was big or small at all. It would have been about the after party- something wild and fantastic in the woods involving a bonfire. Thomas wouldn’t be able to drink but he’d take great pleasure in watching Jimmy get drunker and drunker on Armand de Brignac. They’d pick that bottle because it was gold leafed, shone like Jimmy’s hair, pissed Carson off, and was _pretty to look at, damnit_. 

They might not be the upstairs, but they’d party like they were by god. 

“Thomas has a knack for clocks. He’s in charge of taking care of all the clocks at the abbey- Mr. Carson won’t give that job to anyone else.” 

That caught Mr. Mason’s attention and suddenly Thomas was helping him fix a grandfather clock in the sitting parlor while Daisy washed up their used tea set and hummed faintly from the kitchen. The clock was a Georgian Longcase, sporting an axe moon phase and date dial. Georgians were known for their finicky date dials- and so Thomas found himself re-oiling its springer test it for accuracy. It was no wonder she was about to give out- she was an old girl, probably from the 1780’s… in her condition (barely scratched and with only a thin layer of dust) she could easily rankle three hundred quid. She was no doubt a family heirloom. 

_Here you go, William_ , Thomas found himself thinking, _See how nice I’m treating your clock? Please don’t haunt me from beyond the grave_. 

“Thomas-“ Mr. Mason spoke up. Thomas cast him a sideways glance, unwilling to take his hands off the Georgian when he was pushing the date dial tenuously forward, “I hope that when I ask this you’ll understand I don’t mean to imply you’re an improper man… But I look at Daisy as my daughter… and I don’t know you that well-“ 

Thomas nodded, barely listening. 

“Is she in a hurry?” 

Well that caught his attention sure enough. 

Thomas turned, giving Mr. Mason a beady eye as he considered taking that comment as an insult though it surely wasn’t meant as one. Mr. Mason no doubt thought him the type of cad who’d get a girl pregnant out of wed-lock… very in character for someone of Thomas’ sort. Roguish, dark natured, selfish, and smug. But Thomas was far from insensitive on the subject of pregnancy; his mother had been far from a doctor but well known to other women in their community. More than one night she’d come back with blood under her fingernails tutting about ‘another loss’. 

_“If it’s just not meant to be, it’s just not meant to be.”_ she’d said once. 

“No.” Thomas said, returning his full attention to the Georgian, “That would be impossible.” 

“I see.” Mr. Mason bowed his head, “Thank you for putting my fears at ease.” 

“I understand, you know.” Thomas muttered, as he stroked the date dial lovingly, adding a bit more lubricant to help it move easier, “I’m a cad, a dark horse. No one would happily want their daughter to marry me… Certainly not compared to someone as good as William.” Thomas lowered his hands, wiping them off on his handkerchief to clear them of grime and oil as he slid the date hand back into place and closed the face of the clock. 

“But I assure you, my intentions towards Daisy are honorable, and I intend to make her as happy as possible.” 

“I believe you.” Mr. Mason said, and he sounded honest despite the absurdity of it all. Thomas cast him a wary glance as he began to repack his traveling tool kit (ever present in the pocket of his overcoat), “I can see the pain on your face when you say it. What about your own family? Your father and mother know yet?” 

Given that they were going on seventy two hours since the proposal, Thomas had not had adequate time to sit down and pen the notorious letter. He shook his head, sliding tweezers, screwdrivers, and punches into the respective slots as he wrapped the leather sheaf around itself. His hands were still dirty; he wiped them again. 

“No. No they don’t.” Thomas paused, wondering how best to word the sentence so that Mr. Mason knew the facts without knowing the truth. He’d admit to Daisy his past if she was to marry him… but he’d go to his grave before he admitted to Mr. Mason that he was a reforming homosexual. The fact of the matter was that despite the therapy, pills, and proposal, there was a terrible sinking feeling in Thomas’ chest that he would never truly _not_ be a homosexual. That it would hang over him all his life and smother him in the end. He wondered if he might suffer a mental break down from the strain of it all. 

Then again, hadn’t he already? 

“My father despises me.” Thomas explained, “He’d gladly beat my skull in if he ever saw me again.” 

“Whatever for, lad?” Mr. Mason asked, sounding quite concerned. Thomas shrugged.  
He did not like it when older males took a patriarchal edge with him. It reminded him too much of how his own father had rode over him- bore down till Thomas had buckled and collapsed. 

A flash of a memory flickered through his mind: _“You think a real man love’s anyone? You think I love your mother?”_

Thomas shuddered. 

“Family issues from childhood.” Thomas said, which shed no light at all onto the actual situation, “He didn’t approve of me. It just grew worse over time. When I turned fourteen, he kicked me out to find my own way. And I did.” Thomas said that with no small amount of pride. 

He could have died on that frozen river bank. Instead he’d become a hall boy. 

Mr. Mason shifted a little, looking slightly forlorn as he crossed his arms over his chest and stroked his beard. 

“It could be he’s softened over time.” Mr. Mason offered, “Surely he misses you.” 

Nathaniel Barrow had no doubt done many a thing since Thomas had been kicked from the house. Thomas doubted that ‘softened’ was one of them. 

“You ought to tell him you’re getting married.” Mr. Mason urged, his voice gentle and soothing. It almost irked Thomas, how patronizing it was, though he knew that was not Mr. Mason’s intention. “It’s the sort of knowledge that every father has the right to know. Why don’t you send him a telegram? Just a simple one, informing him of the facts. If he wants to see you afterwards, you know. If he doesn’t, then at least he’s not around to get physically violent. When it’s safer, bring Daisy. Let him get to know her. She can charm the pants off of any old man.” 

Thomas had to admit, that was a right smart idea. A telegram was cost effective compared to a train ticket and it wasn’t like he didn’t know the address. He could easily just tell his father the facts, and wait to see what he got back in reply. 

Got Thomas wondered what he’d get back in reply. 

“That’s actually quite a good idea.” Thomas mumbled. 

“I’m full of them” Mr. Mason chuckled, though Thomas could not see why any of this was funny, “I’m a farmer.” 

Thomas bowed his head, stuffing his dirty handkerchief back into his vest pocket. His fingers touched the crisp edges of Margret’s head shot, and his hand still upon the waxy paper. He stroked the edges, feeling their light fray after years of being tucked away in a drawer. 

Mr. Mason watched him the whole time. 

“You don’t smile much, do you.” Mr. Mason observed. 

The truth of the matter was, Thomas had smiled a great deal in his youth until his father had beat it out of him and made him feel small; told him that his smile was an ugly leering thing and he ought not to show it off. 

_“Dear god, I’d keep my mouth shut till my teeth grew in right! You look like a Jack-o-Lantern with half your mouth missing.” His father had jabbed over dinner. Thomas’ chin had quivered in emotional stress, prompting his mother to put another piece of gingerbread on the corner of his plate._

 _“It’s not important. Eat your pudding, love.” She’d said_. 

“… It’s not important.” Thomas murmured, echoing his mother’s words.  
Mr. Mason looked far from sure. 

~*~

For the first time in his life, Jimmy sat at a piano and couldn’t summon the will to play. 

It was night time, Branson was content, and now Jimmy was stuck in a limbo where he had nothing to do and no where to go. Once upon a time he would have gone to the pub, maybe gotten an ale or a girl… but now he didn’t want to do either. He wanted to sit at this piano, this shoddy upright piano, and sulk. He wanted Thomas to see him sulking, wanted Thomas to know just how upset and miserable he was. But Thomas too busy focussing on writing something, head bent over the servant’s table as he put pen to paper only to back up and purse his lips again. He could have been writing a letter to Father Christmas to beg off the ‘naughty’ list for the way he fretted at the nub of his pen. 

“Go on, Jimmy…” Andy moaned from the end of the table where he sat shuffling a deck of cards. No one was willing to entertain him to a game tonight, “Why don’t you play somethin’ nice?” 

But what was the point of playing anything if Thomas wasn’t going to sit by the piano and listen to him? Jimmy wasn’t an organ grinder, he didn’t play for fun or sport- he made music for Thomas to listen to. If Thomas wasn’t going to listen, Jimmy wasn’t going to play, it was as simple as that. 

“What’s the point.” Jimmy mumbled, fingers sliding across the ivories though he did not press down, “There’s no point to anything. S’just… keys. and tunes. They fade in time.” 

Andy turned in his seat, setting down his deck of cards to give Jimmy a wary look. 

“What’s got you so glum?” Andy demanded. “You’re bluer than your vest.” 

Jimmy had worn his vest in an attempt to garner Thomas’ attention when he’d come back from his visit with Daisy’s father-in-law. His plan had failed abysmally, for the moment Thomas walked back through the door with Daisy, he’d sat down at the table to eat supper with the rest of the servants and then remained in his chair to write his stupid letter. 

Though what he was really doing was scowling at a blank piece of paper and slowly sucking the ink from his pen. 

“And you!” Andy cried out, sounding right irritated at Thomas. Thomas looked up from his blank letter, blinking in surprise. Jimmy looked away lest he catch a glimpse of flecks of green, “You’re just as black when you’ve no right to be. The girl of your dreams has just agreed to marry you- shouldn’t you be dancing on tables?” 

Jimmy could not help but notice the bitterness in Andy’s voice. 

Thomas gave Andy a tiny smile of understanding, but looked down at the letter again to poise his pen to paper. 

“I’m writing a telegram to my father.” Thomas explained. 

Jimmy looked around again in disbelief. His eyes flickered from the blank letter before Thomas, and Thomas’ stern expression. Jimmy swallowed, shifting a little upon the piano bench. Why on earth was Thomas writing to his father? Didn’t they hate one another? Surely that was an unwise idea. What if his father came up to the abbey and started making trouble? 

“Yer father?” Jimmy asked, his voice croaking painfully at the beginning stretch. 

“Yes.” Thomas replied, not looking up as he rolled his green pen between his fingers, “I’ve not spoken to him in fifteen years… I can’t figure out how to say what I need to say.” 

“Oh.” Andy said with sudden knowing, a tad reproachful for his earlier bitterness as he began to lay out a spread for solitaire. “Well… maybe just stick to the facts.” 

“Oh yeah, that’ll work.” Jimmy snorted in an ugly tone under his breath, perching his elbow upon the end of the piano so as to avoid hitting the keys. Tell his father the facts- oh where should he start? 

_Hello dad, I’m engaged to a woman. Still a lavender! Just also engaged to a woman. Hope I can get your blessing; maybe a hug? Kisses —Thomas_. 

“Please do not be impertinent, James.” Thomas growled, scribbling down a well-thought out line upon his paper. 

Jimmy gaped, realizing Thomas had just called James. James! When had Thomas ever called him James? It was too much- too far- as if all there was between them had fallen away and they were no longer even friends. Jimmy recoiled on his piano bench, horribly offended. 

“W-what did you just call me?” Jimmy demanded, agape. 

“Your name.” Thomas scrawled out another line on the paper. 

“M’name is _Jimmy!”_ Jimmy cried out, indignant. 

“It’s only proper that you be called James.” Thomas wrote another line and seemed satisfied, recapping his pen to slip it into his vest pocket; he patted the fabric as if something precious lay inside. 

Jimmy scoffed; he could hardly believe his ears. When had Thomas ever cared about what was proper? When had Thomas ever consented to call him James- as if he was Mr. Carson’s double and eager to please? Jimmy had always been _Jimmy_ to Thomas- even before when Thomas had been Mr. Barrow and there was still an uncomfortable edge between them. Jimmy couldn’t stand the detached coldness he now found himself living in- like he’d squished himself into Mrs. Patmore’s new refrigerator and were being kept on ice in the dark. Thomas wanted to know what was really improper? Really upsetting? 

The true impropriety was that Thomas had dared to do all this to Jimmy- had dared to sever their bond… and turn to Daisy when Jimmy cared far more for him than Daisy could ever _dream_ to. All for society. All for his precious family and their precious support. 

Jimmy suddenly hated Thomas’ family. Hated his mother and father- his twin sister and two bratty children. If only they’d all just buggered off… left them alone. Jimmy and Thomas could have been happy for the rest of their years, making music at an ancient and ugly piano. 

“Bet you love it don’t you.” Jimmy muttered bitterly. He plonked a finger angrily onto a flat key so that one harsh note hit the air, “Proper, proper, proper. Everything’s figured out now, it’s it. Everything’s just— boxed up and neat, isn’t it?!” Jimmy turned around on his bench and glared hatefully at Thomas. Thomas was watching him from his seat, a look of benign calm upon his ridiculous face. “I bet you’re just… just… delighted!” 

_I hate you_. Jimmy thought with all his gut and glory, _I hate you and your stupid hair. Your high cheek bones. Your green flecks. You don’t deserve those green flecks!_

Jimmy ought to cut them out of his eyes and steal them all away, hide them in a bureau drawer so Thomas could never find them again. 

“Yes.” Thomas said, his voice cool and collected. As if he were talking to a stranger and not his best mate, “I am.” 

Jimmy searched deep in his soul for the most biting, ugly thing he could manage to fling at Thomas, wishing he had a razor for a tongue. 

“She’ll find out.” Jimmy whispered bitterly, for he was certain this whole facade would crack and shatter the minute Daisy realized that Thomas was actually a mincing lavender. “She’ll find out what you are.” 

_Thomas has never minced a day in his life_ , His brain warned him.  
_Stuff it, Brain!_ Jimmy thought back, angrily. 

“She already knows.” Thomas replied. Jimmy goggled at him, momentarily stunned. 

Daisy knew Thomas was a lavender and had still agreed to marry him? Was the girl daft? Did she have a mince pie for a brain? Was she a loon? Jimmy spluttered, stunned as Thomas continue to sit and stare from his seat. 

“And still she agreed.” Jimmy whispered, absolutely flabbergasted. 

“And still.” Thomas agreed. 

Andy looked between the pair of them ,completely out of the loop and quite disturbed by the ugly turn of conversation. 

“I am very blessed to care for a woman who is so understanding and kind.” Thomas said. 

As if Jimmy was neither. 

Jimmy looked away, burned by Thomas’ words. He was understanding and kind; why should Thomas think otherwise? 

_Oh I don’t know_ , whispered a nasty part of his brain, _Maybe because for a year you tormented him?_

Jimmy’s cheeks were beginning to heat with shame. 

_You’re a lousy soulless wretch_. his brain whispered maliciously to him, _No one loves you. Why should they? Why should anyone in the world care about you when all you do is take and hurt? Thomas got away from you. Thomas is lucky_. 

Jimmy had always felt so certain that Thomas would never abandon him. That Thomas would sooner die than be cruel to him. But it seemed Jimmy had been wrong; that Thomas cared nothing for him. That his affections had slipped and waned. And why shouldn’t they, when Jimmy was undeserving of them in the first place? 

You couldn’t hide that kind of ugly with a blue vest or coiffed hair. 

“Well. Bully for you Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy choked out, rising up from his piano bench before he could say another incriminating word. He fled from the servant’s hall, desperate for his room and the sleep it would provide him. 

But he never found sleep that night, and when morning came he was just as miserable as ever. 

~*~

Jimmy was sulking and he really needed to stop. 

Thomas had buckets of patience where Jimmy was concerned. Buckets and boat loads- whole continents worth of patience and kindness that he showed with literally no one else on the planet. Ever since Thomas had proposed to Daisy, however, Jimmy had been riding that boat of patience and kindness into every rocky shore he could find until now five days into Thomas’ engagement he was ready to take Jimmy over his knee and spank him if it would get him to stop acting like a spoiled five year old. 

He desperately tried to avoid the line of thought that trailed after- the line of thought where Jimmy welcome the spanking and even asked for more. 

_You’re a filthy criminal_ , his brain hissed, _You ought to be thrown in Gaol for having these thoughts about him when he’s treating your fiancé so badly_. 

Daisy took it in her stride, or at least she tried to, but Thomas was certain no one had ever directed such scorn and criticism at Daisy in all her life (since Mrs. Patmore). Jimmy scowled and sneered at every thing she said, treated her with such derision and cruelty that he was comparable to a lordling belittling his servants. At first, the other members of the downstairs staff seemed to find it excusable, or at least they didn’t say anything about it to Thomas’ face. Saturday morning, however, the whole lot of them were utterly fed up and if Jimmy said _one more thing_ Mr. Carson was going to blow a gasket and kick Jimmy out of the house, Branson be damned. Thomas had tried to distance himself, had started to call Jimmy ‘James’ even though it was like jamming a knife in his heart and twisting it for how ugly and impersonal it sounded. What else could Thomas do? He was at an absolute loss. 

Thomas sat at the servant’s table with Daisy, though neither of them were particularly free. Thomas worked on the inventory for Mrs. Hughe’s wedding, for despite it being the end of June, Thomas felt like September was already upon them. Daisy was copying some of Mrs. Patmore’s older recipes onto fresh paper- the originals were so horribly stained and smeared that no one could read them anymore. Daisy and Mrs. Patmore had been making them strictly from memory for close to eight years now. Mrs. Patmore’s eyes were failing her despite her surgery, and so she’d bid Daisy to do the task in a down moment while a scullery maid washed Daisy’s normal breakfast pans. The clanging and banging from the kitchen mixed with Mrs. Patmore’s yowling was a distant echo down the hall, causing both of them to snicker every so often every time Mrs. Patmore shouted: _“Not that pot you numpty!”_ and _“What do you have the brain of a kipper or something?!”_

Jimmy sat at the opposite end of the table with Thomas’ old sewing kit, slowly threading his way through one of Branson’s more roughed up dinner jackets. It had belonged to Matthew Crawley before being donated to Branson by Lady Mary, and as such it needed to be tailored which was no small task for a first-time valet. If Jimmy was having problems, however, Thomas was unaware. Jimmy kept his hands low, his progress hidden from the rest of the table as he scowled at Daisy every time she spoke. 

Thomas tried in vain to ignore it, though his mind kept jumping to a fantasy where he yanked Jimmy from the table, took him upstairs, and let him have it. 

His whole life could not be spent pining for Jimmy while he chased after every skirt in sight. Jimmy would have to learn that. 

“How long does it take telegrams to travel?” Daisy asked, blowing softly upon the ink of her paper as it dried. 

Jimmy grumbled something under his breath that neither of them quite caught. 

“It took about fifteen minutes.” Thomas said, “So it surely got there after their supper. They known now.” 

“I wonder if they talked about it this morning.” Daisy mused. 

“Oh I’m certain they did.” Thomas sat down his pen to shuffle through sheet after sheet of Lady Mary’s old wedding inventory, searching in vain for what table clothes they’d used. He was almost _certain_ they’d used the Queen Catherine sheets… but it could have been the Queen Anne sheets too. Lady Mary had gone through a ‘silk’ period, where she’d been determined to use the stock of it before Lady Edith could get the chance. “Either way we’ll know soon enough.” 

“Try not to think about it.” Daisy laid her hand atop his arm as he spotted _“Queen Catherine Sheets x24”_ on one of the last inventory sheets. 

He’d halve the numbers, but he was keeping the sheets damnit.  
As for the idea of not thinking about his father reading that damned telegram… Thomas could sooner get away with wearing a flapper dress. 

He started to wonder what Jimmy would look like wearing a flapper dress and had to slam the breaks on his imagination before he got carried away with himself. 

Daisy’s hand tightened a little upon Thomas’ arm. He looked up to see Jimmy glaring at Daisy ferociously, his hands stilled upon Mr. Branson’s riding jacket. He looked ready to choke someone (preferably Daisy), but as soon as his eyes met Thomas’ he quickly looked away with a burning flush. 

Daisy was watching Jimmy with pursed lips, noting how his stare was heated despite it now being directed upon Mr. Branson’s dinner coat. 

“I don’t know what he’ll say.” Thomas admitted, “But I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.” 

“Try not to think about it.” Daisy urged him, “I know how you get, when you worry about something you wear yourself to tissue… and you’re already stressed enough as it is.” 

From the opposite end of the table Jimmy raised his head, eyes wide and hot as rolled his head upon his neck to glare pointedly at Daisy. He seethed, letting out a long breath from his nose as he slowly returned his gaze to Mr. Branson’s coat. 

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to set the thing on fire with the power of his gaze. 

“I know, I know-“ Daisy murmured as Thomas refrained from giving her an answer, “It sounds impossible but… I think if you put it out of your mind, time will go by faster and it’ll make it easier to work.” 

Thomas gave her a bitter smile and continued on with his inventory. 

“I think Mr. Pelham is going to propose with Mr. Branson this Sunday.” Daisy spoke up, clearly wanting a change in subject. Jimmy made small choking noise at the end of the table. 

“What, together?” Thomas demanded, trying to imagine the chaos that would bring. Lady Edith and Lady Mary would be determined to out do one another- all hands would be needed on deck. They’d probably throw a party for their double proposal, and keep everyone up until dawn. “Christ we’ll be slammed.” 

“I think Mr. Branson and Mr. Pelham are good friends,” Daisy said, finishing another recipe to sit it aside, “I heard tell they were spotted in London together earlier this week.” 

Now would be about the time Thomas would usually confer with Jimmy to see if this was actually true. As it stood Thomas had a feeling any question directed at Jimmy was going to be thrown right back in his face (along with Mr. Branson’s scorched dinner coat). 

“Maybe. It’ll do them well to be good friends.” Thomas admitted, recapping his green pen and tucking it back inside his vest pocket. He fingered Margret’s headshot there. “Everyone needs a good friend.” 

Daisy smiled, charmed by his words, “Well now I’m yours.” she said, and leaned in to plant the softest of kisses upon his cheek-

“Oh for _god’s_ sake would you just stop?!”

Daisy jumped, her lips flying from Thomas cheek. She was startled by Jimmy’s outburst, who’d not only shouted but had actually slammed a balled fist onto the servant’s table so that a few scattered tea cups jumped in their saucers. Thomas flushed, heart hammering in his throat as he caught Jimmy’s eye. 

Jimmy was _furious_. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Daisy demanded. “Why are you being so nasty to me, Jimmy? Is it because I’ve taken Thomas from you, is that it?” 

Jimmy’s handsome face turned bright pink as a hot flush filled his cheeks and brow. He jerked up from his chair so that it skittered back on its legs Mr. Branson’s coat clutched in his hands- he was close to tearing the fabric. 

“Just- just shut it y’ stupid kitchen maid! No one wants to hear you goin’ on about Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas!” Jimmy said his name in a high pitched girlish squeal. 

_To be fair, Daisy does sound like that from time to time_. Thomas thought, mildly impressed that Jimmy’s voice could even get that high. 

“Do you even realize how stupid you sound?! Do you?! Or are you so used to spouting nonsense that it just- it just falls right out of your big, fat, stupid, ugly mouth?!” 

Jimmy knocked his chair back and stormed from the servant’s hall, leaving Daisy speechless in his wake and Thomas wondering how feasible it would be to put Jimmy over his knee and give him the wholluping he deserved. 

“I-!” Daisy scoffed, looking from Thomas to Jimmy as he retreated from the hall and stormed up the steps. “I didn’t even say anything-!” 

Thomas held up a hand. Daisy fell silent at once. 

“Let me handle this.” Thomas muttered. He rose up from his chair and exited the servant’s hall, leaving Daisy sitting alone at the table with his inventories and her copied recipes. 

He followed in Jimmy’s path up the stairs, unsure of where Jimmy might have gone until he heard the sound of a door slamming in the attics and knew Jimmy had retreated to his room. Thomas reached the attics a few minutes after Jimmy, and as he walked down the hallway to Jimmy’s room he gave the closed door three brisk knocks before trying the handle. 

It was jammed; Jimmy had clearly shoved a door under the handle. 

Fuming, Thomas laid his head on the wood and tried in vain to keep his temper under boiling point. 

“James, I know you’re in there,” Thomas snapped, “Open the door.” 

_“Go away!”_ Jimmy’s muffled voice came through the wood. He sounded absolutely distraught, which was ridiculous since Jimmy wasn’t the one who’d just had someone shout him down and call him a ‘stupid kitchen maid’. 

“This is not a joke, James!” Thomas snapped, he slammed a fist onto the door in one hard knock, “Daisy has done nothing wrong-!” 

_“I never said she had-!”_ Jimmy shrieked, his voice far too high for comfort, _“You’re the one whose done wrong, you cad!”_

Thomas spluttered, jerking back from the door. His temper hit a boiling point and before he stopped himself he kicked the door. It rattled on its hinges as he seethed. 

“Me?!” Thomas snarled, his voice growing louder and louder, “How have I done wrong?!” 

_“All you ever do is think of yourself- you have no lovin’ heart!”_

“Oh you mean I’ve stopped pining over you, so suddenly I’m the devil, is that it?” Thomas seethed, pressing himself right up against the door. God how he wished he could kick it open and shake some sense into Jimmy! 

_“Go away!”_ Jimmy’s voice was thick with emotion, _“I don’t want to talk to you anymore! I don’t even know who you are! I was your friend, not her!”_

Thomas’ raging heart began to slow at that, at the sound of distress ripping through Jimmy’s voice. He was usually so smooth, so in control, so cocky and eager to dance on tip toes while the rest of them stumbled and fell about. 

Now, Jimmy sounded like he’d not only stumbled and fell, but keeled right over a rocky cliff as well. 

“Yes you do!” Thomas urged, the strength coming back into his voice, “You know how I am! You know yourself as well- you know why this had to be done, so stop acting like a child about it! There was no other way, James!” 

Thomas’ heart throbbed in the unfairness of it all.  
He’d have spent a lifetime pining over Jimmy if only Jimmy had let him. 

“If there had been another path, I would have taken it. But you aren’t like me, and you don’t want me- I had to make a life for myself Jimmy! I couldn’t spend my entire existence being your slave-“ 

_“I had a life before I came here.”_ Jimmy cut him off. Thomas swallowed around an ugly lump in his throat. He suddenly felt incredibly guilty. _“I had a shallow life, but at least it was mine. Now look what you’ve done to me. I have nothing.”_

“…Yeah?” Thomas murmured, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well I guess that’s two of us then-“ 

_“Just go away.”_ Jimmy’s voice sounded just about as miserable as Thomas felt. 

But there was nothing to be done. They were at an impasse. 

Thomas touched the door, stroking the wood he’d kicked and hammered on… he was suddenly quite grateful that Jimmy had had the sense to shove a door under his handle. 

“Fine.” Thomas whispered, turning away from the door to head back downstairs.  
He was long out of ear shot before the sound of sniffling came from under Jimmy’s door. 

~*~

The next day drug on with no sign of Jimmy’s attitude improving and Thomas found himself growing steadily more irritated as he worked on inventory after inventory for the upcoming dinner party. By Branson and Pelham’s demand, it was to be a quiet affair, but even quiet affairs had to be planned so Thomas went over a schedule for the courses with Mrs. Patmore, laid out the silverware with Moseley and Andy, stayed out of Carson’s way while he decanted the wine, and prepared the dining room for the current days meal as he seethed over Jimmy’s attitude. 

No lovin’ heart, had he? Was that so? Well! 

Thomas harrumphed as he jerked each chair out into place. Plenty of people had told Thomas he had no love in his heart, from Carson to John to his own father- but never Jimmy… and it stung when so much love in Thomas’ heart was strictly for Jimmy alone. Even engaged to Daisy and calling Jimmy “James” at every bleeding opportunity, Thomas could not deny that he loved Jimmy more. That he would always love Jimmy more. 

No lovin’ heart, had he? Jimmy didn’t know a thing about it. If Thomas didn’t have a loving heart, he would have let Jimmy be thrown to the dogs come that fateful Thirsk fair. If Thomas didn’t have a loving heart, he would have let Jimmy be nagged and harassed by the entire downstairs after failing to feel up Ivy Stuart’s stupid gams. If Thomas didn’t have a loving heart, he wouldn’t have snuck Jimmy around the gallery like a thief in the night during a _bloody, bloomin-!_

Thomas accidentally jerked a chair out too hard and nearly caused it to tip backward. He paused, exhaling a slow, long breath to regain his composure to set the chair back straight. 

Damn Jimmy Kent. Damn his ridiculous fits, his flighty tendencies, his gorgeous hair, and his beautiful spirit. If only he were imperfect, if only he were a poor fit… if only he were in any way different at all, Thomas could let him go and move on with his damn life. 

Dinner went off without a hitch, save that Andy was still sulking at Thomas over the family’s heads and causing Carson to shoot him blazing looks every five minutes. Thomas kept his servant’s blank firmly in place, but if he could have it his own way he would grab the soup tureen right from Andy’s hands and dump it slap over Branson’s stupid Irish head. 

_“This is all your ruddy fault, you kilt wearing Mick!”_ Thomas wanted to scream. Instead he kept silent and glared at the opposite wall. 

… Was it the Irish or the Scottish who wore kilts? Thomas suddenly couldn’t remember. 

It didn’t matter either way, save that it suddenly put the unwanted but wholly delightful image of Jimmy Kent wearing a kilt in his head. 

Christ Thomas would move to Scotland or Ireland just to get a look at Jimmy in a kilt… a little blue kilt to match his lovely blue vest, emphasis on little-

_Stop it_. His brain snarled. _Stop thinking about it right now_.  
Thomas’ eye twitched. 

 

As soon as dinner was over, Andy and Carson disappeared downstairs (presumably for Carson to yell at Andy about his ‘gross lack of composure’). Thomas cleaned up the dining room to head off after them, determined to curb Carson’s enthusiasm for ritual humiliation if he could, but as he reached the basement and started making his way for Carson’s office, he was caught off guard by Mrs. Patmore sticking her fat neck out of the kitchen to wave her arm at him. 

“Thomas!” She called for him. Thomas stopped, quirking a brow. Either dinner was a barely saved disaster and Thomas hadn’t known about it or the heat was getting to her; she looked absolutely flustered.

“Just one moment Mrs. Patmore, I have to-“ 

“No, you get in here right now.” Mrs. Patmore said in a way that threatened poisoned biscuits for the rest of his life dare he disagree. With an irritated huff Thomas changed course mid-hallway to turn back for Mrs. Patmore’s kitchen, stepping around the corner and into the sweltering heat of her domain to find scullery maids squirreling away over freshly cleaned dinner plates and Daisy ordering a kitchen assistant on how to properly roast parmesan squash. 

“This came for you while you were upstairs.” Mrs. Patmore reached into her pocket, pulling out a crisped yellow envelope which she handed over at once. Thomas took it, unsure of what it could be. “Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson are talking over wedding details, he won’t be out until dinner is ready.” 

“But Andy-?” Thomas looked over his shoulder, wondering where on earth Andy could have gotten off to if Carson was occupied with Mrs. Hughes. 

“Bangin’ away at the piano, god help.” Mrs. Patmore sighed by way of knowing. Thomas couldn’t make heads or tails of it as he returned his eyes to the envelope. 

“Well who sent this?” Thomas asked, peeling back the seal. 

“The postmaster, you ninny.” Mrs. Patmore looked ready to beat him over the head with a freshly scrubbed copper pot for how slow he caught on, but as he searched her sweaty face for an explanation he found it in her eyes. For all her scowls and curses, she could not hide the fretting there, the sheer worry. 

Thomas looked down, and understood.  
His hands began to shake. 

“Pantry, go in the pantry.” Mrs. Patmore ordered, sensing a collapse was imminent and eager to keep it private. “No one will bother you there, we’ve already got the food we need.” 

Thomas did as he was bid at once, crossing the packed kitchen floor to wrench the door of the pantry open and slam it behind him. Suddenly entombed in dust and jam jars, Thomas looked down at the envelope in his hands again and felt his fingers begin to tingle with impending numbness. Eager not to fall onto the floor, Thomas took a seat atop a crate of recently purchased apples and tried to open the envelope again. 

His fingers seemed to be three times their normal size. He couldn’t get them to function properly. He tried again and again, but to no luck. 

“God damnit, come on.” Thomas cursed under his breath. 

The pantry door opened, and light was suddenly thrown onto his hiding spot. He jerked to his feet at once, irate at having been bothered until he saw Daisy on the threshold, turning to close the door behind her. She wiped her hands upon her aprons, reeking of an aroma of roast beef and hearty stew. 

“Is that it?” Daisy asked, nervously. Thomas nodded, and resumed trying to open the letter. When he failed for a third time only to fail, Daisy reached out with an understanding hand and took the letter from him. Thomas gave it over at once, and as Daisy pulled the telegram free Thomas had to take a seat back on the apple crate to keep from keeling over. 

His heart pounded in his chest, his fingers tingled and his feet began to sweat. Suddenly he could not help but remember every blasted detail of the last night Thomas had seen his father, had spoken to his father. 

_“-When you’re taking it up the ass- you little lavender chit!”_

Thomas shuddered, suddenly quite cold despite the layers of his livery and the warmth of the kitchen. 

Daisy looked up from the telegram. She bore a small but steady smile. 

“It’s not bad.” Daisy assured him. Thomas crumpled, burying his face into his arms at once to hide his momentary break down in composure as Daisy sat down on the crate beside him to show him the telegram. Thomas was unsure how he could stand it, knowing full well how badly he’d left the terms with his father, but somehow he found the strength to raise his head and accept the telegram from her. He simply had to know what his father had said. 

After fifteen years, Thomas was still being thrown off guard by the man. 

_Post Office Telegram_  
_From N. Barrow 6:46 p.m. Stockport_

_Mr. Thomas Barrow_  
_Downton Abbey, Grantham, Yorkshire_

_Thomas- Shocked STOP Want to see you again and meet Daisy Mason STOP Need proof before you can see family again STOP Want to make sure this is not a joke STOP N. Barrow_

Thomas could not help but hear the entire thing in his father’s dark voice, a deep and haunting timber that he’d never known an equal to in all his life. If John’s voice was deeper, more snide, that might be a close comparison… but John was far too kind to sound like his father. 

Thomas shuddered again, still feeling quite cold. As he blinked, as he thought, as he lived and breathed sitting on that crate of apples, he was suddenly transported back to a cold December night. 

A terribly, horribly cold… horribly… horribly-  
Thomas shook his head. 

“It’s not bad.” Daisy repeated, her voice oddly soothing in his ear as she brought him back to present day. Thomas found himself looking at his shoes, found himself feeling how warm his toes were inside of them. How cozy his socks felt. 

“He’s shocked. He wants to meet me. That’s not unkind, that’s normal after fifteen years of no contact.” Daisy murmured, taking the telegram back from Thomas to fold it up and return it to its envelop. Thomas slipped it into his inner jacket pocket, next to Margret’s photograph. 

The last time he’d seen Margaret she’d been crying in the door of her bedroom, practically nude in a threadbare white gown. She’d been barefoot. 

They’d both been barefoot.  
Thomas shuddered. 

He was close, though. Remarkably close. In that moment he stood more of a chance to see his mother and sister than he had in fifteen years… and it was all thanks to Daisy. Thomas smiled down at her, marveling at how sweet she was even in that moment. Her syrupy composure usually annoyed him, made him feel like he was courting a child instead of a grown woman… but in that moment Thomas felt as close to her as he did his own sister. 

“Send a reply telegram tonight, before dinner. Run out now to the town and get a message through. It doesn’t matter what day your father asks for, we’ll go. Mr. Carson’ll understand.” Daisy urged. 

Thomas had a feeling she was right. 

So it was that Thomas went out into the night, practically running the entire way to town with Margret’s photograph burning in his pocket. A million sentences were exploding in his mind, a trillion words he’d wanted to say since their parting, a thousand facts to tell her and to hear back in return. Images, memories, details were popping up in his brain. The smell of his mother’s perfume, the feel of Margret’s hair (lightly curled at the ends and black as coal), the way that his mother held her sewing needle, and Margret’s penchant for writing letters to Phyllis Baxter despite the fact that they lived four houses down and Margret had seen her not five hours prior in school. 

His mother thrashing in his father’s iron grip, her housecoat and nightgown poor protection from the bitter December cold; she scratched at his arms with her fingernails, screaming for Thomas. Her hand thrown out to try and grab him and pull him back into the house. The way that her foot had felt in Thomas’ touch. He’d only touched her for one second, but in that second her foot had been so soft, warm, and real. An odd weight that made his heart beat slower in his chest for the comfort it brought. 

Later that night after dinner, a reply telegram was received, and this time Thomas could open it with steady fingers- he practically ripped it free from its envelop to read that his father wanted to meet Sunday, which was a little pinchy in that it fell on the same date as the ‘quiet’ dinner that Mr. Pelham and Branson were asking for… but if it really was ‘quiet’ then what was the fuss? 

God in heaven it had taken enough arm pulling from Carson though, to the point where Thomas effectively ended the argument with, _“I haven’t seen him in fifteen years for gods sake! Do you have pity or not?!”_

Apparently Carson did have pity, as he reminded Thomas while chewing his ear off for a solid half hour after Thomas handed in his completed inventory.

It didn’t matter though. None of it mattered. Carson could have squalled for six hours and Thomas would still have felt the same way. 

All that mattered was that in less than twelve hours, Thomas was going to see his family again. He did not care what it would take; he’d fall to his knees and beg in public if it garnered him his father’s approval. For the first time in his life, Thomas wouldn’t mind looking a fool.

He would see his sister and his mother again, no matter what it took.  
He would let nothing keep him away. 

 

As Thomas lay in bed that night, his lights off and moonlight casting poor shadows off his sparse furnishing, he held Margret’s headshot and his father’s two telegrams in sweaty hands, wondering. 

Wondering. 

He could see his family home if he closed his eyes and concentrated. Could see the layout of the clock shop, every available surface covered in clocks for sale and other odd furnishings. His uncle had made tables- Thomas could remember that. His uncle had made tables, his aunt had painted still life… their wares had also been available for purchase in the shop. Thomas could remember his grandparents; his grandfather had been a tall and domineering man just like his father, but he’d also been jovial and eager to play with his grandchildren. His grandmother had knitted all the time, and for some reason had never been entirely fond of his mother—

_“Let me go, da-!”_ Thomas heard his own voice echoing in his ears.  
He winced, eyes slipping shut. 

—Thomas’ mother hadn’t cared; she’d cooked her meals and tended the shop while his father ran errands- had swept all day long till Thomas had turned four and suddenly it was his job. The broom had been twice as tall as him, and still he’d scooted about the floor to do as she bid— 

_“What is this book?! Tell me what this book is?!”_  
Thomas winced again, tossing his head sharply upon the pillow to try and shake the memory. 

But as he slipped into sleep, the memory chased him down. Hunted him like a cat to a vole. Like Lady Anstruther to Jimmy. Its hungry black fingers reached out from the abyss, finding him and tethering him before he could have a chance to slip away into a normal night of slumber. 

Thomas’ feet suddenly felt cold in his warm bed. He shivered, already gone, and pulled his legs up to his chest. 

 

_It had been a dark night, the bitter winter wind stealing any warmth Thomas might summon from his threadbare coat and thinly soled shoes. Despite the frigid temperature of Stockport in December Thomas felt incredibly hot at the memory of kisses being pressed into his skin- of hands wrapping around his waist and holding him tight_. 

_Mr. Gardner was in his thirties, more than double Thomas’ age; he had arms as strong as Thomas’ father, and hands so large Thomas felt certain they could split a log without the need for an axe. Thomas didn’t even know Mr. Gardner’s first name, nor what his profession was, but he didn’t care either way. Mr. Gardner’s first name and occupation mattered very little when he was pressing Thomas up against the wall outside Le Petit Lapin. Thomas spent every Saturday night putting his brass farthings into the pockets of starving artists and writers, sitting in the back corner of Le Petit Lapin while they all argued over delightful topics such as the virtues of Oscar Wilde and the correct way to pour absinthe. Thomas was always greeted with smiles and hearty ‘hello’s; he’d fix their pocket watches for free and buy them all sandwiches to eat from his allowance. Mr. Gardner drew in his past time (he claimed he wasn’t good enough to draw for a living) but he’d been urging Thomas for at least two months to consent to a nude portrait. Thomas had not wanted to do it, had been downright nervous for her was certain he’d known where it would lead, but then several of his writer friends had caught on and begged for Thomas to go through with it_. 

_“Let’s all draw you!” Mr. Travis had urged, an artist who’d spent plenty of time abroad in France before his wife had divorced him, “We’ll draw you and we’ll toast to your beautiful body!”_

_Thomas had been quite certain he was not in possession of such a body, but finally after three ales he’d consented (to a chorus of cheers) and the whole lot of them had headed into the back room of Le Petit Lapin to set up camp amid crates of unopened beer and ingredients for mince pie. Mr. Cheverton (a huge man who worked in the coal mines during the day only to write at night) had stood guard at the door, while Mr. Gardner, Mr. Travis, Mr. Woods, and Mr. Draper had all set up around Thomas to light candles and pull out their sketch pads. Mr. Wheeler, Mr. Lock, and Mr. Young had all sat clustered in a corner, drinking and eating sandwiches. They were writers, and as such did not possess sketchpads; but they certainly possessed mouths and were eager to spout lyrics of beauty that Thomas reminded them of_. 

_Thomas had been right nervous, frightened of what must surely come next, until Mr. Gardner had gotten up from the floor to take Thomas into his arms and help him disrobe. The room had gone incredibly silent as Thomas shed one layer after another, and by the time everything had fallen away a pin drop could be heard. Despite their earlier insistence, Mr. Wheeler, Mr. Lock, and Mr. Young were all quiet, their eyes feasting on Thomas like he were a sumptuous banquet and they a group of starving peasants. Mr. Gardner’s hands had been hot on his body, despite the cold of the winter night and how the wind seemed to bite at his heels even inside the basement of Le Petit Lapin. Thomas had longed for his clothes, had felt utterly exposed as the artists suddenly took to their pens and pencils_. 

_He’d been both frightened and excited for the prospect of someone touching him inappropriately. Had almost prayed one of the men would touch him. Instead Thomas had been instructed to sit with his legs almost tucked under him, his hair in his eyes and his chest pounding_. 

_“God you’re gorgeous.” Mr. Young had sighed, one of the younger of the men present. He was about twenty four; a student of Oxford though only there on scholarship and just as broke as the rest of them, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun-“_

_“How did I know you were going to go to sonnet 130?” Mr. Lock had cut in; he was older, grumpier (with a wife and three children), and his eyes had a particular burning edge to them. Like he’d love nothing more than to take Thomas over the back of a crate and claim every inch away from the prying scorn of his nagging wife_. 

_“At least you’re not quoting Wilde” Mr. Wheeler had said_. 

_“No, Oscar’s got nothing on this.” Mr. Young had snorted into his ale. “If he’d gotten a good look at Thomas he’d have done his nut.”_

_“Or spent it.” Mr. Wheeler had snickered_. 

_“Quiet, the lot of you.” Mr. Gardner had warned, eyes locked on the juncture of Thomas’ thighs. Thomas almost wanted to cover himself, to hide his sex. But he kept his hands at his sides as they'd asked, his face turned way and burning in embarrassment_.

 

_It had taken them past midnight to finish, and when they were done Thomas had redressed in a hurry, feeling quite cold. They’d urged him for another ale, begged him to stay, but Thomas had slipped out the back with his priceless manuscript of ‘Maurice’ tucked under his arm, but had been caught up by Mr. Gardner who’d come running to offer Thomas a copy of his sketch. Thomas had refused it, his heart hammering in his chest_. 

_“Are you embarrassed?” Mr. Gardner asked, “You shouldn’t be. You have a beautiful body.”_

_“… Beauty is as beauty does, sir.” Thomas had mumbled to his shoes. “It doesn’t mean people will love you.”_

_“And does anyone love you, Thomas?” Mr. Gardner asked him_. 

_“No sir.”_

_“Well we can’t have that now can we.”_

_And suddenly a large muscled hand had snaked around Thomas’ waist to press him tight to Mr. Gardner- Thomas had felt his arousal between his thighs, had shuddered at the hot muscle pressing into his youthful body. His own sex began to stir with keen interest as Mr. Gardner plundered his mouth_. 

_Thomas had pulled away after a few minutes; had been too nervous to continue, too afraid of being caught, but he’d practically skipped home. It was close to one in the morning and he knew he’d have to be very quiet going up the stairs lest his father wake and give him the thrashing of a lifetime. Thomas had already decided to spun the lucrative tale of a romp in the woods with someone’s daughter if he was caught- better that his father think he was out with a girl than out alone_. 

_All the upstairs lights in his family home were off when Thomas finally made his way onto the stoop, nose burning from the cold and fingers numb. Cautious of being caught, Thomas slipped his key into the front door and quietly opened it to let himself in. He was instantly relieved from the cold night air as he closed the door behind him, locking it securely back to slip off his coat and flat cap. He hung them on a peg by the door next to his father’s. In the dark of the night, his father’s clock shop looked almost like a treasure trove- moonlight had gleamed off of every glass surface. Thomas slipped off his shoes, eager not to make the wood squeak as he headed through the shop to take the door behind the counter for the back room where the stairs to the second floor lay. Here, shop turned to home, and Thomas sat his shoes near the base of the stairs next to Margret’s Sunday heels and Danny’s muddy outdoor boots_.

_He’d climbed the stairs with care, each step nearing a squeak even with his slight weight. He’d always been a lithe boy- a waif at 5’7 and 120 pounds. Dr. Newberry, just up the road, had assured his mother that he was still growing and would one day be just as strong and tall as his father. Given that Thomas’ father was 6’3 and surely reaching near 200 pounds, Thomas doubted this very much_. 

_He’d reached the top of the stairs and had tip toed across the floor of their carpeted living room, stepping over one of Daniel’s storybooks that he’d left on the floor. Thomas picked it up to set it on the coffee table, fully aware someone was going to trip over it come morning. The door to his shared bedroom was slightly ajar, for which Thomas was grateful as he reached out to take it in hand. He inched it open, looking over his shoulder to check the shadow of the kitchen for a sign of his father sitting at the table around the corner-_

_And had turned around only to freeze in a panic as he realized his father was not only in his room but standing over Thomas’ bed with all of Thomas’ secreted manuscripts spread out on the coverlet. There had to be twenty- thirty surely… each of them damning evidence to Thomas’ Saturday activities_. 

_Thomas stopped in the doorway, his heart hammering; his father stood next to Thomas’ bed looking out the one shuttered window of his room. It was open to the cold night air so that moonlight poured into the room. It illuminated every inch of his father- his broad shoulders, his large domineering hands, his sharp angular chin and his cold apathetic eyes_. 

_He turned just a hair, eyes locking on Thomas in the doorway: shoeless, coatless, cap-less… holding a leather bound manuscript in his hands. Thomas clutched it tight to his chest, terrified_. 

_“… Where you been?” His father asked, and though his voice was mild his meaning was truly ominous. Thomas swallowed, his heart pounding in his throat_. 

_“…Out.” Thomas whispered back, the story of a farmer’s daughter and a tryst in the woods fleeing from his mind at the sight of those manuscripts upon his bed_. 

_“Out where?” His father asked in that same mild voice_. 

_Thomas didn’t know what to say. He took a step back, holding his manuscript tighter to his chest_. 

_“I… I…” Thomas stuttered, utterly helpless_. 

_His father took a step forward, gesturing with a large hand to the manuscript clutched in Thomas’ sweating grip. “What have you got there?”_

_“S’nothin.” Thomas spluttered at once, chin quivering in terror as he took another step back, “Just a journal.”_

_His father’s gaze hardened_.  
_“Let me see it.” He commanded, taking another broad step forward towards Thomas. Thomas backed up into the living room at once_. 

_“No!” Thomas shook his head, knowing full well what his father would find should he dare to open the manuscript and see what lay inside. He suddenly wanted to run, far far away- to find his mother or sister and hide behind them- to hide behind anybody who could protect him. “S’private. Journals ‘r private ‘da.”_

_“Not in this house.” His father snarled, and there was such venom in his voice that Thomas knew he was in for the beating of a lifetime should his father’s hands reach him. He backed up nearly to the coffee table, “Give me that book-“_

_“No!”_

_Thomas bolted for the kitchen and the door that lay beyond it- his parent’s bedroom. His mother was probably asleep in her bed and would panic at being awoken to the sound of Thomas screaming his lungs out but by god he needed her now. Needed someone to protect him-!_

_Thomas had only made it over the threshold of the kitchen before there were arms jerking hard around his thin waist, yanking him back into the living room. Thomas struggled in his father’s grip, kicking and screaming at the top of his voice and praying that his mother would come running as his father tried to wrestle away Thomas’ manuscript with one hand_. 

_“No! No! Stop!” Thomas shrieked, twisting and turning in his father’s iron grip, “Let me go! Let me go, ‘da!”_

_His father yanked hard, and Thomas’ manuscript was torn from his hands; his father let go of him and Thomas fell with a bruising force to the floor of the living room. He jerked back up, trying desperately to grab the manuscript back from his father’s hands- his father would have none of it and with one resounding slap across the face Thomas was flung backwards once more to crash for a second time against the floor. He hit the edge of the coffee table on the way down, and his temple pounded with pain as blood began to trickle down the side of his face_. 

_Thomas’ father had opened the manuscript and was reading at the marked spot. Thomas whimpered, absolutely terrified; he prayed his mother would appear soon… he clutched at his throbbing temple, blood oozing wet and warm between his shaking fingers. From the floor Thomas watched as his father read at the place Thomas had bookmarked_. 

_Thomas cowered as his father looked up, their eyes locking on the final, horrible understanding_. 

_“I-it’s… it’s not what you think!” Thomas blubbered, hands up to shield his face even as they dripped with blood_. 

_“What do I think, then?!” Thomas’ father bellowed, absolutely affronted as he shook the manuscript in Thomas’ face. “Tell me what I think, since you seem to know what goes on in my head!”_

_“I-it’s… it’s just a book, da!”_

_“Is that all it is?!” His father demanded. Thomas scooted backward on the floor, desperate to put ground between them as he struggled to his feet, “What is this book?” He shook the manuscript in Thomas’ face. “You tell me! WHAT IS THIS BOOK?!”_

_Thomas surged forward as his father’s iron hands began to bend at the leather. He desperately tried to wrangle the copy back from his father's hands- a one of a kind manuscript never to be repeated twice. It could not be damaged, it could not! Not when it brought him such hope- not when it set his soul ablaze and assured him he was not alone. But his father shoved him off yet again, nearly sending Thomas sprawling to the floor a third time as he read from the passage:_

_““He would not deceive himself so much. He would not – and this was the test – pretend to care about women when the only sex that attracted him was his own. He loved men and always had loved them. He longed to embrace them and mingle his being with theirs. Now that the man who returned his love had been lost, he admitted this.” His father read the damning passage of the manuscript with fierce loathing and contempt, “Thomas Barrow what the BLOODY HELL is this?!”_

_“Please!” Thomas begged, prostrating himself before his father_.  
_He didn’t know why he was pleading. When had pleading ever worked before?_

_“Please, I-I’m not doin’ anyone a harm!”_

_“Not doin’ anyone a harm, are you?” His father was unconvinced, and Thomas’ hands began to shake again, “When you’re damning to society?! When you’re destroying families!? When you’re ruining innocence?!”_

_But in place of fear, anger was beginning to grow. Anger at a man who’d shown him nothing but abuse and neglect all his life. Anger at a man who’d drank to reward himself for being a father, and had beaten his children with the practiced ease of a ringmaster cracking a whip. Anger at a man who had treated his mother, his wonderful sweet mother, like a dumb cow- yelling and snarling at her when she failed to obey his every command_. 

_How Thomas hated his father in that moment. Hated every inch of him for the way he clutched and tore at his precious manuscript, at his childhood, at his family_. 

_“I think you’ve got us confused, here!” Thomas snarled, gesturing between the two of them; hot splotches of anger were beginning to bloom on his father’s angular face, “I’m not the one drinking every night and beating my wife! Scaring my children, tying them to me with a chain around the leg-!”_

_His father threw down Thomas manuscript so that it bounced on the coffee table. Thomas tried to reach forward, to seize it, but was knocked backward hard by another iron slap across the face followed up by a wild shake of the collar that sent his head jiggling painfully on the neck_. 

_“You think you’re perfect, eh?!” His father bellowed into his face, spit hitting his cheek as his father slapped him hard again. Thomas blurted out a sob at the explosion of pain, “You think your sins are so forgivable?! When you’re taking it up the ass- you little lavender chit-!”_

_“I’ve never done anything like that!” Thomas wailed, thinking of the artist session he’d participated in that very night and how (though nude) he’d only sat and been a study. Proper. Decent. Nothing flagrant about it_. 

_“But you want to! Admit it, you want to-!”_

_Thomas whimpered, terrified, “I- It’s not against the law to love someone!” Thomas begged. “Please da, love isn’t against the law.”_

_But his father seemed to be disgusted by his words. He shoved Thomas away, and Thomas stumbled off, clutching his swollen throbbing cheek as his father seethed and fumed_. 

_“Love doesn’t exist.” His father spat. “How stupid can you be to think that love exists?”_

_Thomas whimpered, and tears began to slide down as he thought of his mother. HIs beautiful, kind, sweet mother who’d never done him a wrong and had protected him all his life. How could a man be married to his mother and not love her? Thomas couldn’t understand it. Thomas loved his mother; he wasn’t even a lady’s man, and he still loved his mother. How could his father- her husband- not loves his mother?_

_“You don’t mean tha’.” Thomas blubbered, and hot shame swirled up inside of him as thick tears sprang from the corners of his eyes to drip down his swollen cheeks. His father always hated it when he cried, always beat him harder and longer in an attempt to toughen him up and make him stop. Thomas covered his traitorous mouth with his hands, tried to hide the fact that he was crying even as more tears spilled down his cheeks_. 

_“You think a real man loves anyone?” His father demanded, far too gone in his rage to make sense anymore, “You think I love your mother? You think I just wear my heart around on my sleeve like some nancy?!”_

_Thomas’ lip quivered_.  
_“… She’ll find out.” Thomas whispered, for he was certain of it. His mother would find out his father was a vile, heartless, low down dog. His mother would find out and leave him. HIs mother would find out and save them all. She’d find out; she’d find out for certain_. 

_“You-“ Thomas stuttered, rage boiling back to life as he stumbled forward to shove his father hard on the chest. His father looked affronted, “You pathetic excuse for a man! She’ll find out-!”_

_“Pathetic am I?!” His father roared, and he grabbed Thomas hard by the neck to throw him to the ground. The pair of them fell together in a tangle of limbs, and Thomas’ skull banged against the floor as he father straddled him to smack him hard in the face_. 

_“YOU THINK YOU’RE PERFECT?!” He punched Thomas in the mouth. “YOU THINK YOU’RE SO PERFECT?! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME?!”_

_Thomas wailed at the top of his lungs, screaming for his mother, his sister, his little brother- anyone who might hear him and save him! Tears poured down his cheeks, now mixing with blood from his nose and his mouth. With every punch that hit him, Thomas’ teeth bent in his skull, his bones crunched and shattered-!_

_“She’ll find out-!” Thomas screamed, his words garbled from trauma._

_“YOU THINK WE’RE SO BLIND!? YOU THINK WE DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE?!”_

_“She’ll find out what you are! What you are inside!”_

_“YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW JUST WHAT YOU ARE?!”_

_Again and again and again he punched Thomas- a painful crunch emanated from Thomas’ cheek- he knew the bone had broken. Agony rippled through him as he screamed out and turned his broken cheekbone away_. 

_“No, Da!” Thomas sobbed, praying his father would hear him and stop, “No, Da, no!”_

_The punches stopped; Thomas was left sobbing and choking on the floor, blood spurting from his mouth and nose as he wailed in agony into the wood of the living room floor_. 

_“Da…” Thomas bleated_. 

_He opened one bruised eye to peak up, terrified of what he might find. His father was sweating and heaving, eyes wide and astonished as he looked over his shoulder to someone in the doorway of the kitchen. Thomas rolled his head to see beyond his father’s arm, still poised upward as if he might rain down any second and strike Thomas again_. 

_There in the doorway of the kitchen was his mother, clad only in a pale blue housecoat and nightgown, black braided hair falling over petite shoulders. She clutched at her mouth with one hand, the other holding Danny tight to her side. Margret was in the door of her bedroom, her paisley nightgown almost see through in the moonlight. She was crying, holding onto the frame of her door as if she might fall over if she let go_. 

_His mother stuttered, clutching her breast as if she were about to suffer a heart attack_. 

_“Nathan…” She choked out his father’s name. “What have you done?”_

_Thomas began to cry again in earnest from the floor of the living room, wishing to god his mother could save him from his father_. 

_His father steeled himself, hand dropping to his side as he glared down at Thomas, shoeless, coatless, and bleeding upon the floor_. 

_“… Get out.” His father whispered_. 

_“W-what?!” His mother cried out. But it was too late_. 

_His father yanked Thomas up by the collar, now slick with blood dribbling from Thomas’ chin- Thomas was pulled unceremoniously to his feet, only to be hauled about by the waist as he stumbled and weaved, unable to walk. HIs head pounded, his vision swam; he couldn’t concentrate or focus!_

_There were stairs, Thomas was being drug down stairs. Past his shoes tucked in at the base. There was a shop, cold and dusty, a front hallway and a locked door- a coat and hat on a peg that Thomas would desperately need to survive the cold-!_

_“Nathan, please-!” His mother was tearing after them, abandoning both Danny and Margret upstairs to chase after his father, “He’s never done you a wrong! He’s never done anyone a wrong-!”_

_But the door was being yanked open and without further ado Thomas’ father flung him coat-less and shoe-less onto the street. Thomas screamed as he hit the slushy sidewalk, freezing from the snow beneath him; his legs shot into his chest, his arms coming up to hide from the cold. He looked up to see his mother, running for the door barefoot and clad only in her housecoat as she tried in vain to reach Thomas in the street. Thomas’ father blocked the doorway, catching her around the waist as she tried to pass and holding her back. She kicked and flailed, bare feet banging against the wall as she tried to get out the door_. 

_Her braid swung, her blue eyes sparkling with tears as she beheld Thomas bleeding and shivering in the street._

_“Get out of here!” Thomas’ father spat from the doorway, “Get out and don’t let me ever catch sight of your face again!”_

_His father tossed something onto the street- his manuscript of Maurice! Thomas grabbed it before the snow could destroy the leather, clutching it to his chest even as he shook and shuddered. The cold was vicious, biting at his skin till it turned raw pink_. 

_“Thomas-!” His mother wailed, reaching out her arm for him even as his father tried to pry her back_. 

_“Get out!” He roared, dragging Thomas’ mother along, “Get out or I’ll call the police on you! You know what the do to your sort?! You want to go to Gaol?! You want to go to prison?! Get out!”_

_“Da, please-!” Thomas scrambled upon the stoop with one hand, the other still clutching the manuscript to his chest as he fell upon the dirty concrete step. Blood dribbled from his chin onto the stone. “Please-!” He sobbed, shivering in the cold_. 

_“Thomas, no-!” His mother sobbed, her voice cracking and warbling in anguish as she hung limp in his father’s hold, “Nathan, please- my baby-!”_

_Thomas reached out for her- the tips of his fingers touched her bare toes_. 

_In that moment Thomas felt his childhood, his true and actual childhood. The one he’d poured his soul into and found himself in. The one that had given him nighttimes full of mystical star watching and days full of cricket games. Sumptuous mince pies, freshly bake apples and new books at christmas. Beautiful books about valets and their handsome lords. He felt the moments where he’d called out to his mother in fright or pain, only to feel her arms a second later. He felt his infancy where he’d been cradled on her shoulder, and nursed at her breast. The tiny ticking seconds of her laying in his bed, arms wrapped around him as he pretended to slumber only to truly breath in the comforting scent of her hair._

_The tips of his fingers nearly touched his mother's bare toes._

_Nearly - but not quite._

_His father kicked him, hard, and Thomas was knocked backward off the step and onto the street._

_“Get gone, trash.” HIs father spat, and without another word he slammed the door. Thomas heard it lock, heard his mother’s cries growing fainter in the hallway… and then everything went silent._

_Thomas looked back over his shoulder down the street, black and cold, covered in dirty snow. Looked at his feet, shoe-less and numb. Looked at his shirt and hands, splattered in fresh blood. Looked back up at the door of his family home. The only shelter he’d ever known._

_Thomas let loose a scream, shrill and anguished._  
_No one answered him back._

 

Thomas bolted upright, sweat drenching his neck and brow as he cast wild eyes about his room; his feet were underneath him, his arms around his chest, as if snow had been sucking the warmth from his body despite that it was in the middle of June and on the verge of sweltering underneath his coverlets. 

It was also morning, close to six; Thomas felt exhausted, like he hadn’t slept at all. He shut off his alarm clock anyways. 

_Son of a bitch_ , what a nightmare.  
If only it had been just a nightmare, though.

_“Six o’clock!”_ came Gregory’s annoying voice, followed by a hammering on his door. 

Thomas swung his legs out of bed and began to dress, grabbing his best day suit and combing his hair back until he looked somewhat presentable. The entire time, however, Thomas found himself messing up on small details. He accidentally buttoned his vest wrong and nearly poked himself in the eyes with his comb. He picked out the wrong pocket watch twice before selecting the right one and even then he couldn’t seem to get it on his vest right. 

His hands were sweating and tingling. His nerves felt like they were on fire. 

And suddenly, as he looked up at his reflection in the mirror, he realized that he was not looking at the image of a strong, confident young man. He was not looking at someone who would please his father, someone who would exude an air of confidence and gain back his family. He was a child, shaken and terrified of being cast out twice without shoes on his feet. 

In that moment, he was more terrified of failure than he had ever been in his life.  
And suddenly, Thomas needed to talk to Jimmy. 

He needed to hear Jimmy’s voice, to hear his thoughts, to feel strong and confident again in order for Thomas to take on his father with his head held high; Daisy was sweet, but Daisy was not Jimmy… and right now Thomas desperately needed to know what he would say. 

He opened his door to traverse down the hallway, passing by Moseley who was headed towards the lavatory with toothbrush and cup in hand. Jimmy’s door was closed, just as it had been last night when Thomas had come up after dinner (which Jimmy had not attended) and he suddenly wondered if Jimmy had been in there all night. 

Thomas knocked on Jimmy’s door, unsure if he would get a response so early. When Jimmy did not answer, Thomas knocked again. 

“Ji-James?” Thomas had to change his course of words halfway through, his emotions nearly causing him to slip. “Are you in there? I need to talk to you, please open up.” 

But Jimmy did not open up. Thomas laid his head upon the wood and spoke right into the crack of the door, his heart fluttering in his breast. 

“Jim-James, please, I- I have- there’s something on my mind. I’m- I’m about to visit my father and I just… I just need-“ 

_“Why don’t you go talk to Daisy about it?”_ Jimmy scolded bitterly from the other side, and Thomas jumped to realize that Jimmy was literally right on the other side of the door for how close and clear his voice was through the wood. _“She’s your friend now. Your fiancé. Remember?”_

Thomas straightened up, and despite how Jimmy’s ugly words clenched at his already bruised heart there was a ring of truth in them. Daisy was the one going with him to see his father. Daisy was the one whom he should be talking to. Daisy wasn’t Jimmy but she was his fiancé… and Jimmy was no doubt fed up with having to listen to Thomas whining every second of the day. 

Jimmy was right; Thomas stepped back from the door. 

“Yes. You’re right. Forgive me.” Thomas paused, “I forgot myself. It won’t happen again.” 

_But it will_ , a nasty voice reminded him in his head. _It’ll happen again, and again, and again._

 

Breakfast was served for the downstairs but Thomas could not eat. Phyllis looked quite pale across from him at the table, watching him cautiously as he picked at his plate and took slow mouthfuls of gray tea. Daisy passed toast around, her hair done up differently and her comb visible beneath her bonnet. Every time she passed behind Thomas she gave his still-full plate a wary eye and tutted in disapproval. 

Jimmy joined the table ten minutes late with bags under his eyes and his hair slightly out of place. Carson’s face began to grow so hot that had his eggs still been raw he could have fried them on his brow. Thomas tried to catch his eye but kept failing; Jimmy wouldn’t look up from his plate. Phyllis watched the entire interaction, a look of knowing spreading across her face. She reached into the pocket of her dress, pulling out a letter and passing it over for Thomas to take. He did so, unsure of what she wanted. 

“Would you do me a favor and make sure your sister gets that when you see her today?” Phyllis asked. Thomas nodded, slipping it into his own pocket. “I’ve missed hearing from her. I’d like to start writing to her again.” 

“I’m sure she’d like that.” Thomas replied, though his throat was dry and his voice weak. 

“She’s going to be so thrilled to see you again, Thomas.” Phyllis murmured. “She cried for months when you left.” 

To be fair Thomas had not left by any means; he’d been kicked out shoeless and coatless in the middle of winter to die in the snowy streets… but Phyllis could hardly say this at the table and Thomas understood her meaning. 

A tiny bud of courage began to grow in his chest at the thought of Margret and her affection. 

“Take heart.” Phyllis said as she sipped her tea. “Margret is the reward for your struggles today.” 

Phyllis was right. Thomas took a bite of toast, earning him an encouraging smile from Phyllis as he began to devour his plate. His food was cold by now, but it hardly mattered. He’d still need to eat to keep up his strength. 

Thomas glanced at Jimmy and found him looking up for the first time in the whole meal, watching Phyllis and Thomas talking over toast and tea. He seemed pensive, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. 

“I’m worried about my father.” Thomas said to Phyllis, though his eyes were locked upon Jimmy’s own. “You know how he gets.” 

“There’s no cure for stubbornness.” Phyllis reminded him. 

“If there was we would have had you hospitalized in 1912.” Carson muttered, catching Thomas’ eye. 

Thomas dropped his half eaten toast back onto his plate with a long sigh and drained his teeth. Phyllis caught his eyes, and rolled her own. 

 

When eight o’clock rolled around, Daisy vanished upstairs to re appear fifteen minutes later in a salmon pink dress and matching cloche, her cheeks rouged and her traveling gloves on. She looked nervous, but giddily so as she fastened a peach summer coat about her neck and made for the back door. Thomas followed her, shrugging on his coat and fedora for the simple sake of propriety. 

“Are you ready?” Daisy asked as they walked down the hall. Thomas touched his family photos in his vest pocket, taking comfort in them as he nodded. He had a sneaking suspicion his face was gray. “Don’t be so worried, remember I’ll be with you every step of the way.” 

They were almost to the back door when the sound of pounding feet upon the stone floor caused them both to look around. Thomas was half expecting to see a hall boy begging for attention, and was surprised instead to find Jimmy with his beautiful golden hair askew and his face flushed light pink from exertion. It seemed he’d run all the way from upstairs to catch Thomas before he left for the nine o’clock train. 

Jimmy had to paused to catch his breath, throwing a hand out for the wall as he gasped and stuttered. 

“Wait-“ Jimmy swallowed, hand outstretched. Thomas was more than willing, though Daisy was starting to frown. She pursed her lips, looking down to fidget with her traveling gloves as Jimmy straightened back up and pushed his hair out of his face. 

“Are you really going to go see your old man?” Jimmy demanded. Thomas nodded. 

“But I thought he hated you.” Jimmy looked quite unsure of the entire affair, chewing on his lip as Thomas fixed his hat a little firmer upon his head. 

“Yes, well. Thomas has had plenty of experience with unnecessary criticism and scorn. Wouldn’t you say so, Jimmy?” Daisy replied snootily, still clearly irritated. 

Jimmy didn’t even bother with a reply, still looking to Thomas for answers. 

“He does hate me, Jimmy.” Thomas replied, “But I’ll hold my own.” 

“You don’t have to do this-“ Jimmy urged. “I may not have all the answers but-“ 

“As a matter of fact, Thomas absolutely needs to do this.” Daisy warned from the doorway. She opened it wide so that their leaving was now imminent. “He is trying to build a life for himself, an honest life, and if you were half the friend you claimed to be you’d understand that. Why don’t you focus on rebuilding your own life instead of busy-bodying around everyone else’s?” Daisy stepped out into the exit area, sunlight coloring her brown hair gold at the edges beneath her pink cloche. 

Jimmy looked ready to fire a bullet between his clenched teeth. 

“Thomas, this is stupid.” Jimmy hissed, “You’re needed here-!” 

Thomas smiled. 

“I’ll miss my train.” Thomas murmured, “Thank you for talking to me before I left, Jimmy… It means more to me than you know. Everyone needs a friend.” 

Jimmy looked utterly defeated as Thomas stepped out of the exit area after Daisy. Jimmy raked a hand over his face, a weird heated gurgling sound jumping his his throat he dropped his hand to reveal flushed angry cheeks. He glared at Thomas as he left, and without another word slammed the door on their retreating backs so that the backdoor rattled on its shaky hinges. 

Thomas blinked at the sight, turning back around to follow Daisy out of the courtyard. 

“Rude man.” He heard Daisy hiss under her breath. 

 

They caught the nine o’clock train bound for Stockport, and as they sat down in their compartment Thomas found himself wishing he’d not eaten those three bites of toast at breakfast. He was close to vomiting, and make no mistake. Daisy had brought a book to read, and did so even as Thomas laid his head back on the seat and tried to relax. As soon as he felt the jolt of his train underfoot, his eyes immediately popped open again and he began to jitter his leg. He kept a hand steadily over his breast pocket, feeling his pounding heart beneath and the the three photographs just above- the crisp waxy paper like an iron shield to protect the terrified organ. 

He reached into his vest and pulled them out, staring at them in turn.  
They had been sent by Phyllis Baxter more than a decade ago, acquired from Margret herself and passed along in a secret chain of command so that Thomas could have a small piece of his family even though they were far apart. Phyllis would never know how much they’d meant to Thomas during his years of struggle at the Abbey- his years in the Somme. 

Thomas observed his mother, sitting perfectly still with Daniel, three years old, upon her knee. Thomas and Margret stood at her shoulders, keeping a stiff posture around her hard backed chair. 

Thomas could remember how his mother had fussed and prattled over all three of them that morning, determined to get Margret’s bow straight, Thomas’ hair slicked down, and Daniel’s face clean of dirt if only for five minutes. It had taken them half the morning just to get ready. Daniel had been a pest the entire time until his father had threatened to crack him across the face and sent him running to Thomas for cover. 

In hindsight, this had been a bad plan; Thomas had gotten cracked more in a week than Daniel and Margret put together in a month. 

He flipped to the next picture, a stoic and typical photograph of his father standing outside of Barrow and Sons Clockworks wearing his best suit and looking like a right proper business man. Thomas could not look at this picture too long- it was too upsetting to his mental state when he could remember being thrown right out of that door by that man. 

He turned to the final picture; Margret’s headshot. He stared at it for as long as he dared, taking comfort how beautiful and kind her face was. How lovely and sharp. He’d told Daisy once that at times what people felt could be seen through their eyes. He’d garnered this from Margret, for every time he looked at Margret he could see her sincerity and warmth. 

He touched the frame of her face, as if he could stroke her thick black hair through the picture. 

“Whose that?” Daisy murmured; she set her book aside, closing it and laying it upon the leather seat next to her as she scooted closer to Thomas to look at his photographs. 

Thomas showed her the headshot; she took it with both hands to inspect it closer. 

“She’s beautiful.” Daisy murmured. 

“My sister. Margret.” Thomas explained, his words oddly chopped for all the emotion he felt saying the name, “My twin sister, actually.” 

“I can see it.” Daisy agreed. 

Plenty of people had been able to ‘see it’, in Thomas’ youth. His grandfather had teased his father mercilessly saying _“Now, which one’s the boy again, Nathan?”_ and the local school master Mr. Hinde had always been calling them the wrong name ( _“Thomas- oh, no, so sorry Margret dear, don’t cry now love!”_ ). Thomas’ father had cracked like an egg under the heel of a boot, and in a fit of madness had all but strapped Thomas to a kitchen chair to sheer off half his hair just to make it adamantly clear who was the boy and who was the girl. Thomas had looked in the mirror, had seen his newfound reflection, and had bolted under his bed to hide from the ‘mirror monster’ for the rest of the day till his mother had gotten home from market. She’d come home, wondered at all the hair in the dust bin, and when his father had come clean she’d promptly whacked him over the head with a rolled up copy of _The Lady_. 

_“You’re a clockmaker, Nathaniel! Not a barber! It would have taken you ten minutes to walk down to Stainton’s Barber Shop and get him a proper haircut! Look what you've done to my sweet baby's hair!”_

Thomas smiled at the memory of his father blundering through half-thought apologies. Thomas had gotten an extra slice of pudding at dinner that night, and a new haircut the next day from Mr. Stainton. 

Thomas slid out the next photograph, the shot of his mother with Daniel on her knee and Thomas and Margret crowding her shoulders. Daisy took it with avid interest, peering keenly at Thomas’ mother and no doubt accurately guessing her identity. 

“My mother.” Thomas said by way of explanation, tapping her serene face. Daisy smiled, taking in her slightly curled hair and weary eyes. “My sister, and my younger brother Daniel.” Thomas pointed to both their faces in turn. Daisy pointed to the younger Thomas and gave him a coy smile. He’d been sulking in the picture, doing his best to look smart and proper but still scowling for the photographer as he fidgeted in his ugly green outfit. 

“Is this _you?_ ” she asked, looking very amused indeed. 

“I’ll have you know I hated that outfit and shucked it the minute we got home.” Thomas muttered. 

“You look like a little lord-“ 

“I look like a tosser.” 

Daisy laughed gayly, though she did not make to contradict him. 

His mother had been adamant about having them in matching outfits of her own creation, and while Thomas had never been one to shove off a new pair of trousers he’d certainly not liked the green ones his mother had made him wear. Margret had been lucky, in a pretty dress with bows and and a sash. Thomas and Daniel had been stuck with lace at their throats and neither of them had been happy about it. The stockings had been just that much worse. Daniel and cried, Thomas had begged, but in the end both of them had been forced to wear their atrocious green outfits and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it. 

Their train pulled into the Stockport station at noon, with the sun high in a cloudless sky. Thomas liked the sun, and had it been a happier day he would have liked to take a walk on the green and enjoy the June warmth. As it stood Thomas was feeling decidedly terrified despite the friendly weather, and feared he might vomit before the end of it. How lovely would that be? a friendly family reunion followed by a scene of Thomas vomiting on his father’s shoes. That was sure to get him back to Margret in prompt time. 

It was staggering to return to Stockport, to see the train station and high street that had dominated the scenes of his youth. Certain things were still the same, the Sunday market was in high swing and Thomas was almost certain he saw familiar faces from his youth. Stockport families were prone to keep to the area, given the rural nature of the town. The chemist and bakeshop were still in place, barely unchanged save for what was surely a fresher coat of paint on the wood. Certain things were new, including a bookshop and a draper; if only Thomas had had more time, he would have loved to explore both. The clock was ticking, however, and the closer that it drew to one the closer that the pair of them needed to be in Sokol Park located in the center of the town. 

Thomas lead the way, practically knowing the path by heart despite not having walked it in over fifteen years. He knew that just after the Sunday market there would be a slight turn in the road between the butcher shop and the Stainton’s Barber Shop. If he stepped between the two shops and headed towards the back alley, Thomas knew that he would walk straight onto the edge of Sokol Park… unless something had changed.

His eyes were peeled for his mother and sister. With every dark haired woman that passed by him, Thomas searched. He was desperate, praying for a chance reunion despite how ridiculously small the chance was. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew that his father would never allow Margret or his mother to run into him until he’d determined for himself that Thomas was ‘safe’. Bitter, Thomas turned his eyes downward and heading for the bend in the road. 

As it so turned out, something _had_ changed; there was now a brick wall cutting off the path to Sokol Park. Thomas followed it, slightly irritated, and as they came around another bend in the alley they stepped out from behind Stainton’s Barber Shop to come back into sunlight. There was a break in the brick marked by two large columns, leading them onto the main path of Sokol Park which was oddly clear of people despite the massive turnout of Sunday market. Church had just gotten out, Thomas could hear the bells pealing in the distance, and knew that in due time another wave of marketers would be flooding the street to pick up wares for Sunday dinner. 

Given the time of year, Sokol Park was fragrant with the aroma of newly blossomed flowers. Harebells, pasqueflower, cornish and dorset heath were everywhere; the grass was sprinkled in lavender and white. The center of Sokol Park squared out into a star path that split off in five different directions. It would be impossible to know which direction his father would come from, so Thomas gave up trying to look and instead sat down on a lone iron bench to put his head in his hands. 

His heart was _pounding_ in his chest. 

The last time Thomas had felt like this, scared shitless and backed into a corner, he’d been in the Somme about to raise up a lighter. 

In a bizarre act of deja vu, Thomas found himself searching for his lighter in his vest pocket, finding it against Margret’s headshot. With shaking hands, he pulled both out and took comfort Margret’s sweet smile. Everything that he’d done, he’d done for her. For the meeting he might garner and the reunion he might cherish. He was so close, so very very close. 

If he just held out now, he would be with his family again before dark. 

He began to open and close his lighter, taking comfort in the tiny metallic click. He pinched the lighter between his ring and middle finger, just as he’d done in the Somme. 

He checked his pocket watch as Daisy sat down next to him on the bench. Ten till. 

Thomas sighed, letting his lighter wiggle between his ring and middle finger. He was a jittery wreck, only realizing at the very last second that he had the ability to smoke a cigarette now. People could hardly begrudge him when he was in a park. Daisy seemed to realize it too, and she pulled forth his pack from his coat pocket to offer it over. Thomas took it once, selecting a cigarette and lighting it to take a deep drag. He breathed out a long column of smoke, watching it twist and dance in the air; Daisy’s hand was upon his elbow, rubbing in a soothing manner. 

“You’re fine, Thomas.” Daisy whispered. “You may not have seen your father in a long time, but it can’t be all that bad.” 

Thomas let out a weak chuckle. “You have no idea.” 

“What happened when you last parted?” 

Thomas paled, swallowing as he caught Daisy’s eye. Daisy was starting to look very disturbed. 

“What is bad?” Daisy asked, nervous. 

“Y’could say that.” Thomas’ voice was pained and pinched. 

He checked his watch again. One minute till. 

_Christ_ , Thomas thought, _I might very well faint_. 

He couldn’t even smoke his cigarette anymore; his nerves were so raw that even inhaling nicotine made him sick. He tossed his half-finished cigarette down, crushing it out with the heel of his boot and relaxed back on the bench to close his eyes and take a breath. 

He got perhaps two seconds of peace and quiet in, with birds chirping overhead and Daisy rubbing his arm when he started to hear gravel crunch. 

His eyes bolted open. 

The first thing Thomas saw were his shoes, and he knew immediately that they belonged to his father. They were large, well worn, but polished to hide the obvious scuff marks of age. Thomas’ eyes slowly slid up, from dark brown pants to olive green vest, the jacket covering a white shirt and maroon tie. 

As soon as Thomas saw his face, he had to look away at once and instead stare at a tree until he’d regained his composure. 

Age had not changed his father very much, save that there was now a great deal more silver in his hair and heavier bags underneath his eyes. They were strikingly similar in appearance; had they stood side by side a stranger could associate them as father and son. His father was a tall, domineering man with a hard jaw and an iron stare that could rattle even the most experienced war vet. It was that ugly, bloodless look- the one that swore to cut you dead should you disobey or disagree. Thomas had begged for his life beneath that stare, had folded like a well ironed tablecloth and pleaded on the floor until his mother had come to rescue him. There was no mercy to be found in that gaze, no compassion to be found in that touch. His fists had been drenched in Thomas’ blood before, his clothes stained from the salt of Thomas’ tears. 

Thomas Hardy had once wondered in _Convergence of the Twain_ if both the iceberg and the Titanic had been made from the same cosmic force. 

Thomas looked at the image of his father and knew it was true. In the same stroke of destructive force, the universe had made both he and his father. The ship that could not sink and the iceberg that would not move. 

The gravel crunch again and the again, the Titanic slipping ever closer to the iceberg. Thomas felt Daisy’s grip tighten in his hand, knew that she was feel the effect of the frigid meeting and perhaps wondering just what on earth she’d gotten herself into. Thomas suddenly felt incredibly guilty for dragging her into this mess, for making her endure this all for the sake of Margret and his mother. In that moment more than any other, Thomas felt utterly selfish and wished that Jimmy was beside him- 

But then his brain adamantly reminded him that having Jimmy meet his father would only lead to disaster. No, Jimmy could never meet his father- the two had to remain as far apart as possible lest the earth split beneath their feet and the sea swarm with blood. 

“… Is this a hoax?”

That dark voice, as ominous in emission as a ripple of thunder across a hot stormy sky; it had haunted his dreams for fifteen years, but was far from dreaming now. Thomas dare not look at his father lest his fear show on his face, instead still focusing on the tree to his father’s immediate left. 

“No it is not. Sir.” Thomas bit out the ‘sir’ in a last minute bid for peace. His father had had a firm rule in their house growing up: he was referred to as ‘sir’ when a question was answered. ‘Yes sir’ and ‘No sir’… there no exceptions to the rule. Despite now being on the verge of turning thirty, Thomas was unnerved at the idea of calling his father anything but ‘sir’ least it earn him a beating in front of Daisy at all people. God, he could not help but shudder at the thought. 

Daisy squeezed his hand again sympathetically. 

“And is this the girl?” Thomas saw his father gesture to Daisy out of his peripheral vision, “Miss Daisy Mason?” 

Thomas nodded, shooting a sideways glance at Daisy as her gloved fingers slipped from his sweaty ones. She’d extended her hand for his father to shake, and Thomas almost wanted to scream out and stop her lest she be struck and beaten. 

But Thomas’ father merely shook her hand, and though there was no hint of a smile upon his weathered face he looked slightly less tense. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Daisy said by way of greeting. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last.” 

This meeting was many things. A trial of hell? Indeed. A necessary evil? Absolutely. A pleasure? Not in Daisy’s wildest far flung dreams. 

“I imagine you have a bit of explaining to do, Thomas.” The sound of Thomas’ name on his father’s lips made his blood run cold. “A bit more than you did in that telegram.” 

“Well,” Thomas shuffled for something to say, “you only get so much room sir.” 

Thomas chanced a glance at his father and found him glaring with such a thunderous rage that he momentarily considered aborting the entire mission and simply running back to Grantham along the tracks. Sod the afternoon train. But then Thomas felt the weight of his sister’s headshot in his pocket, and knew that if he ever wanted to see her again he would have to buckle down and fight it out. 

“Daisy and I met working together for the Earl of Grantham in Yorkshire.” Thomas explained, though that was hardly an accurate summary of their fifteen year relationship. His father looked far from impressed, crossing his arms over his chest to give Thomas one of those unnerving stares. The kind that used to send him scurrying for his mother as a child. 

Thomas quickly looked back to the tree; anything to keep from appearing a coward in front of Daisy. 

“How long have you two been together?” His father asked. 

Thomas thought, using his fingers as ticking points. If he was being generous, he could claim a little over half a year. He needed every weapon he could get in this war. 

“A little over half a year, sir.” Thomas explained. Thomas’ father narrowed his eyes in distaste at the pale answer. 

“But we’ve worked together now for fifteen years.” Daisy in what was surely meant to be a helpful manner. Thomas’ father only looked less impressed if anything. 

“Why only now? If you’ve known her for so long?” He asked. 

Thomas tried to summon an answer but the words stuck in his throat. 

_Fuck_. Thomas thought in a paling fear, _Fuck, I’ve fucked up_. 

For one awful momentThomas thought he was for the chop, that his father was going to discover everything and crack him so hard across the face his bones would turn to dust beneath his touch. But then, with all the grace of speed of a guardian angel, Daisy swooped in to save him with the sugared truth. 

“Thomas has had a very difficult time with it, Mr. Barrow. This past October he went to London for conversion therapy; he undertook electric shocks and awful injections that made him very sick. He put himself through the wringer, but in the end it was worth it because it helped us to be together. He’s done everything in his power to put the situation right.” Daisy declared. 

For a moment his father was silent, taking in the facts. Thomas wondered if he stood still long enough he might simply become a tree himself and stay forever in Sokol Park hiding. A bird could nest in his hair and Jimmy could read a book at his base. 

“So for all this time, all these years-“ His father added with a certain snide reluctance, “You’ve still been sick in the head?” 

So fearful was Thomas of broaching this subject with his father that he decided to avoid it all together: “Forget it, it’s in the past-“ 

“I’ll forget nothing, boy!” His father reminded him in such a sharp snap that Thomas thought for one stuttering second that he would surely be struck. Instead his father just glared, causing Thomas’ mouth to go incredibly dry, “and I’ll remind you not to get fresh with me after all the hell you’ve brought on my head.” 

Thomas thought of his mother kicking and screaming in her threadbare nightgown, desperately trying to reach him on the snowy streets. Suddenly he had no idea what to say. 

“Sir…” Daisy spoke up, reproachfully. “Thomas did an incredibly difficult thing to try and make amends, today. And it wasn’t easy to do what he did with therapy. It helped us find one another, but it nearly killed him in the process. It was a terrible undertaking, surely that deserves some kind of credit?” 

But Thomas’ father had never given him credit for anything in his life, and so Daisy had to continue on as the stony silence stretched longer. 

“My father-in-law— I’m a war widow—“ Daisy added hastily, for his father did a double take at the phrase, “My late husband’s father, he’s like a father to me now when I have no family of my own… he was the one who urged Thomas to reach out to you. Thomas didn’t even think you’d believe him.” 

“And who is your father-in-law?” Thomas’ father asked, completely skipping over the other topic so that Thomas’ cheeks burned in shame. 

“A Mr. John Mason of Foxhill Farm in Grantham.” Daisy pronounced. “Though as I said, sir, he’s more of a father to me now anyway.” 

Thomas’ father turned his gaze back upon him again, and though Thomas would not meet his eyes he could feel the burn his face and neck from where his father glared at him. There was some strange derision to his father now, an almost jealous sting that Thomas hadn’t expected. 

“A farmer’s son, now, Thomas?” His father sneered. “I suppose that’s where you met Miss Mason? You were a farmhand?” 

“… No sir.” Thomas paused, “I first met Daisy as a footman. She was a scullery maid. We both work at the estate Downton Abbey… Now she’s the kitchen assistant and I’m the under butler.” 

At first his father did not seem to register the full impact of his words and merely rolled his eyes, but then he turned back and he looked genuinely confused as his arms slipped down from his chest. 

“You’re a butler?” His father demanded incredulously. “What do you do serve tea all day?” 

Thomas blinked, and suddenly found himself looking at his father despite his original hesitation. The pair of them stared at one another, clock makers to the bone, each attempting to grapple with the insane concept that one could be a butler (serving tea all day long) and call it a fulfilling life. 

“… Well they also let me wind the clocks, sir.” Thomas offered. “So it’s not all that bad.” 

“And why do they do that, pray tell.” 

Thomas shrugged, unsure why this fact needed clarification. “Because of you.”  
Surely this was obvious. 

Yet something odd crossed over his father’s face in that moment. Thomas had seen every emotion but kindness flicker there, from mild distaste to full blown apocalyptic rage; now he was bequeathed with the pleasure of viewing amazement, and took full advantage of it as his father looked him up and down, as if finally taking him in. 

Thomas wondered why that fact, the fact of him winding clocks for the Lord Grantham, was so important. 

“Well.” His father looked away, seemingly unsure of what to say or how best to proceed. If there was something to be said for Barrow men, they knew how to be awkward in a social situation and no mistake. “I- This isn’t what I was expecting. But I’m proud of you, all the same.” 

_But you’re not proud of me_. Thomas thought miserably, _You’re proud of the fact I’m engaged to a woman. If you knew who I really loved you’d beat my skull in_. 

Now, more than ever, he wanted to be with Margret- with his mother. Wanted to hold Margret and seek the reward for his pains. 

Thomas’ father offered his hand to shake. 

Thomas stared at that hand and remembered all it had put him through. As a small child, that hand had popped him in rebuke. Had grabbed him by the back of the collar to yank him into the house or tug him into line. As an older boy, that hand had beaten him repeatedly, each disciplining causing Thomas to grow in fear until he could not even bear the sound of his father’s voice. That hand had thrown him out of the house into the snow- shoeless on a December night. 

That hand had ripped him away from his family, and now it wanted to shake him in sordid friendship. 

For Margret and his mother’s sake alone, Thomas extended his own hand and shook it. His father’s grip was like iron; Thomas’ knuckles popped. 

Their hands fell away from each other, and though the handshake might have been a sign of bridge beneath the water and all the rest Thomas was no lest paranoid after than he had been before. He felt incredibly tired in that moment, and suddenly longed for his room in the abbey. But he had miles to go before he slept… and his reward was still before him. 

“I suppose you want to see your mother.” His father asked. Thomas kept his composure as calm as possible, unwilling to give away his ‘hand of cards’ before a master poker player. “She’s waiting for you at the house with your sister….” At this his father trailed off, looking slightly tense. “Daniel died during the war.” 

His father had no way of knowing that Thomas already knew this, that Thomas had seen his brother’s name on list of Somme casualties in the war office while working for Dr. Clarkson. That Thomas had spent the day in his room crying until Edward had heard him and knocked tentatively on the door. The pair of them had drank to Daniel’s memory; the night had ended with Edward falling asleep next to Thomas, his hand outstretched to grasp Thomas’ arm lest he feel alone in the dark. 

“I see.” Thomas murmured softly. He looked down, trying for something somber. “I’d like to see my mother today if that’s alright.” He paused, “And Margret.” 

His father looked untroubled, shrugging as he glanced over his shoulder up the pathway that he’d come. 

“You’d better come with me, then.” His father said, “Though I suppose you know the way to the shop.” 

_Yes_ , Thomas thought with a decidedly nasty voice, _I know the way to the fucking shop_. 

Daisy and Thomas followed his father out of the park; Daisy slipped her hand through the joint of Thomas’ elbow, but Thomas suddenly found it slightly annoying. He didn’t want to hold hands with Daisy, he wanted to run like a mad man for his childhood home and search every room for his family. They were walking too slow, they were taking the long way. Why couldn’t they run, instead? Surely there was nothing undignified about running if the situation constituted it. 

The situation definitely constituted it.  
“What does your father work, Miss Mason?” His father asked as they headed up the far end of main street towards the northern end of Stockport. Thomas knew every building on their path; it seemed this area of town had not changed in the time that Thomas had been gone. There was _Stockport Selections_ , a dress shop owned by the Baxters- Phyllis and David Baxter had lived on its second floor as children; Phyllis’ mother clearly still owned it. The shop was closed on Sundays; the windows were dark. 

“Barley, wheat, soy beans, potatoes… he has many fields.” Daisy explained, her fingers dancing upon Thomas’ arm, “He also breeds livestock.” 

“Does he do well?” Thomas’ father asked, eyes locked on the horizon. He had a funny habit of not looking at people when he spoke to them- unless of course he was speaking to Thomas in which case he stared Thomas down like a hungry hawk. 

“Yes sir, he does.” Daisy was right chipper, “He wants me to run the firm when I’m finished with service-“ 

“You could do well with that, a farm is self-sustaining.” 

They came around the final bend in the road… and for the first time in fifteen years Thomas stared upon his childhood home and had-been-inheritance. 

_Barrow and Sons Clockworks_ was a multi storied brick house at the very end of main street, ending in a rounded col-de-sac and placed snuggly between a hat shop and a shoemaker. Its first floor was filled with tall glass windows linked in brick columns, a set of steps leading into the front hallway where a visitor might hang their coat and hat to further explore the store itself. The second story was all brick, small windows shuttered to the daylight. From left to right, Thomas knew all the windows: his parent’s bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, his own bedroom that he’d shared with Margret. Gutters on either side of the step took care of rain in the summer and snow in the winter- 

_“Get out!” Thomas’ father roared, dragging Thomas’ mother along, “Get out or I’ll call the police on you! You know what the do to your sort?! You want to go to Gaol?! You want to go to prison?! Get out!”_

_“Da, please-!” Thomas scrambled upon the stoop with one hand, the other still clutching the manuscript to his chest as he fell upon the dirty concrete step. Blood dribbled from his chin onto the stone. “Please-!” He sobbed, shivering in the cold_. 

Thomas reached out, slowly running his hand up and down the metal railing of the front stoop. His mother’s anguished voiced was echoing in her ears. 

_“Thomas, no-!” His mother sobbed, her voice cracking and warbling in anguish as she hung limp in his father’s hold, “Nathan, please- my baby-!”_

Thomas blinked, hands still tracing up and down the railing. He dropped his hand to let it hang heavily at his side. 

His father had brushed past him and was unlocking the front door of the shop. Thomas tried not to flinch at the sound of the lock sliding free- that same metal scrape had damned him to a life of solitude. Daisy was still on his arm, humming to herself as she looked up in amazement at the shop. 

“Are you alright?” she whispered in his ear, “You look pale.” 

“… I miss my sister. My mother.” Thomas muttered, praying his father would not overhear as he opened the door. “I’m here for them, not for him.” 

“Oh Thomas-“ Daisy tutted even as she fondly rubbed his back, “You ought to want to be here for him too. He’s a good man.” 

Thomas pursed his lips even as he turned his eyes upon Daisy, and for the first time since their courtship he found himself growing slightly angry with her. 

She knew nothing about his father. He was not a ‘good man’. 

As Thomas ascended the steps to the shop and stepped through the front entry way, he suddenly felt transported back to his childhood in a body too bed with a heart too heavy. There was hat stand on which his coat and newscap at been pegged- there was a pea coat of dark blue that Thomas recognized as belonging to his mother. He was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and reached out at once to touch it. The rough woolen fabric was thick beneath the pads of his fingers; comforting…warm. Thomas shook his head, amazed at the simplicity of it all. Here was a coat his mother wore. 

His mother was in this building. 

Thomas stepped around his father, who had crossed the threshold of crammed shop interior to step behind his desk and remove his coat. For some reason his father had never liked hanging his own coat by the front door where it properly ought to go. Thomas’ scanned the front of the shop, and he stepped into the side room across the center floor to see if his mother was inside a smaller wing boasting only tambours, lyres, and porticos. She wasn’t. 

Thomas turned back around to see Daisy peering about the shop, mystified by all the clocks available for purchase. Most of the main room was taken up by grandfathers, massive mystical things with swinging pendulums and crystal faces. The entire room ticked with a single heavy heartbeat. With each pulse, Thomas’ eyes swiveled about the room, looking for his mother. 

Thomas’ gaze fell upon the door to the backroom, where one could exit the entire building to find the family garden outside (a tiny plot taken up by vegetables and at one time chickens) or ascend a set of stairs to the second floor where the family lived. 

_Of course_ , Thomas thought elated, _She’s upstairs!_

Thomas side stepped around Daisy who was focused on the glass case of his father’s desk that boasted pocket watches, and made a bee line for the back door just as the phone rang. His father looked at it, wary of anyone who might be calling on a Sunday, but picked up on the second ring none the less. 

“Barrow and Sons Clockworks.” His father’s sultry tone filled the air- Thomas did not care who was calling. He wanted to see his mother. He stepped around his father’s desk, heading for the back door, but without warning his father’s hand shot out to catch him by the arm. 

Thomas winced, that iron grip bruising the flesh beneath as his feet stilled upon the floor. He looked over his shoulder to see his father glaring at him with one hand even as he held the phone with the other. 

“It’s for you.” His father said, extending the phone. 

“What?” Thomas was taken aback- when his father began to scowl he corrected himself at once, “Sir?” 

“As I said, boy. Take the phone.” His father grumbled, thrusting both ear and mouth piece for him to take. 

_Who in the hell knows I’m here_ , Thomas thought in a haze of panic, _Who on earth could be calling for me? Did someone see me walking down the street?_

“H-hello?” Thomas stuttered unintentionally, looking back over his shoulder at the door to the stairwell. If only he could just fling away the phone and have at it. 

_“Mr. Barrow-“_ came the heated voice of Carson. Thomas gaped, wondering how in the hell Carson had found his father’s telephone number until he reasoned that Carson must have simply called the operator for Stockport, _“It’s Mr. Carson of the Abbey-“_

Thomas rolled his eyes- as if Carson could honestly think that Thomas would forget his voice by only leaving for three hours. 

“Mr. Carson,” Thomas scowled, “I’m in the middle of a very important-“ 

_“I am aware of your predicament, Mr. Barrow, and I am sorry. But it’s as we feared- both Mr. Pelham and Mr. Branson and just proposed-!”_

Thomas’ anger spiked, and without meaning to he shouted aloud, wishing he could fucking thrown the phone across the room. “Oh for gods sake!” he cried out, mindless to how his father did a double take at his brash anger. Daisy likewise looked alarmed. 

_“I am sorry, Mr. Barrow, as I said. But you are needed here and promptly! You and Daisy are essential. A party of twelve is approaching the abbey to congratulate the new couples, Mrs. Patmore cannot handle by herself, nor can Moseley and Andrew expect to hold the table-“_

It wasn’t fair.  
It wasn’t fucking fair. 

For the first time in fifteen years, Thomas’ mother was in reach. She was literally one floor above him, waiting for him to return to her arms, but Thomas was being snatched away again. He was closer to Margret and his mother now than he’d been in nearly twenty years, and still he was not close enough. 

“I-“ 

_“I need you back here, Thomas. You and Daisy both. As soon as possible.”_

“I-“ Thomas stuttered, checking his clock. It was 1:15… If they pushed it they could make the two o’clock train and reach the abbey by five. Even then that would be pushing it dangerously thin with dinner for twelve. Mrs. Patmore would be in an absolute tizzy- Moseley and Andrew overwhelmed… but it was the best Thomas could offer. “Of course. Mr. Carson. We’ll be there by five- that’s the earliest.” 

Thomas half expected Carson to be enraged by this. For five to be too late, and the entire situation his fault. Instead, Carson simply sounded remorseful. 

_“I am sorry, Thomas.”_

But Thomas doubted he could ever be sorry enough, and in that moment he hated Carson though he knew it to be wrong. It wasn’t Carson’s fault that Branson and Pelham had chosen to be blubbering nitwits and propose together; spineless little rodents that couldn’t hold it together for five seconds and simply propose separately like decent human beings. 

Thomas had been ready to leap from the rooftop when he’d proposed to Daisy, had hardly meant a single word of his love declaration, but still he’d managed to wing it on his own. What excuse did _they_ have? 

“We’ll be there soon, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, his voice quite flat, “Keep your head above water.” and with that, he hung up the phone. 

Daisy was gawking at him from over the counter of his father’s front desk, unsure of what to think as Thomas hung his head and scratched the back of his neck. Without meaning to, he looked up at the ceiling and wondered if his mother was above his head. 

“What happened?” Daisy asked. 

“There was a dual proposal.” Thomas said, his eyes still locked on the ceiling. He traced the grains in the wood trying to make a discernible pattern out of it all. “We’ve got to get back to Downton and fast-“ 

“But your family!” Daisy was in dismay. 

“There’s a dinner party of twelve coming.” Thomas mumbled, unwilling to drop his eyes, “Mrs. Patmore won’t be able to hold on her own. You’re her only assistant, Daisy. I’ll have to help Carson with the footmen.” 

“If you need to leave, you’d best do it promptly. You can catch the two o’clock if you’re swift.” Thomas’ father seemed untroubled either way; as Thomas dropped his gaze at long last, he noted that his father had hardly bothered to glance up from his desk. He was instead filling out the bottom half of a custom order form without a care in the world. 

Daisy gaped, flabbergasted at his calm. 

Thomas was far from surprised. 

“You’d better hurry.” His father paused in the order form to glance at his pocket watch. “It’s forty till.” 

Thomas looked up at the ceiling again, and made his move. 

Knowing time was of the essence, he did not bother with lengthy explanations. Instead, he pulled out his pen from his vest pocket and took up a scrap piece of paper from a torn order form at the edge of his father’s desk. His father watched with morbid curiosity as Thomas wrote the address to Downton Abbey to hand it over for him to take. His father did so, glancing at the scrap before pocketing it. 

“…Tell her-“ Thomas gestured to the ceiling and the door behind him, “Tell them both where to find me. If they’d like to see me, to write to me- if either of them would… they can find me there.” He knew he was babbling, he didn’t care. 

“As you were.” His father gestured to the front door. “Be off with you or you’ll miss the two o’clock.” 

He continued to write his order form; it seemed he would not even shake Thomas’ hand goodbye. Once again, Thomas was not surprised. 

“Sir.” Thomas said dumbly, and with one last look of utmost longing at the back door, Thomas turn on his heel and left the room. Daisy followed with a few hesitant steps, her gate jerking as she kept looking over her shoulder. 

“Miss Mason.” Thomas’ father nodded his head in farewell. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Daisy farewelled, quite put out. “Thank you for your… kindness and understanding, sir.” 

She caught Thomas’ eye as she looked away; it was clear she didn’t exactly mean it. It seemed Thomas’ father’s dismissive finality of the situation with his mother was a ringer for his true inclinations. He was a man that cut himself off from emotion, from love, and that did not set right by Daisy. 

“I am a sentimental man.” Thomas’ father replied. 

 

~*~

 

Jimmy Kent was the cleverest man in the entire world and no one could tell him differently tonight. Oh yes, Daisy had been oh so coy in her jabs and taunts before dragging Thomas out the door to meet his abusive father- but Jimmy could taunt and jab right back. He didn’t need a ring on his finger to make Thomas come running. He wasn’t Thomas’ fiancé but he was Tom Branson’s valet. 

And every toff listened to their valet. 

“You were right, Jimmy!” Branson was practically bursting with pride as Jimmy helped him out of his day suit and into his evening tux, “Worked like a charm! I was as nervous as the day I proposed to my darlin’ Sybil but- you were right!” 

Jimmy just smiled, content to brush Branson’s jacket upon the clothes horse as Branson ran a hand repeatedly through his gelled hair. He seemed unable to keep still, which was just fine with Jimmy. It gave him more time to brush and gloat. 

_“If you were half the friend you claimed to be you’d understand that. Why don’t you focus on rebuilding your own life instead of busy-bodying around everyone else’s”_ Daisy had sneered. Sneered! As if she had any business knocking on Jimmy’s door. Jimmy had already rebuilt his life, thank you very much. He’d been a professional jazz singer, and quite a happy one too! 

_Liar_ \- a voice in his head warned, _You were miserable and bordering on a drunk_. 

“Proposing with Bertie was the best way to go about it.” Branson was rambling, whiskey decanter in hand as he took a heavy sip. Jimmy ought to tell him to watch it but he really didn’t care. If Branson wanted to get roaring drunk, that was his own business. “Double the fuss but double the support and I feel like as a feather now! God, it was a brilliant idea! They should put you through Oxford! What made you think of it?!” Branson demanded.

Jimmy smiled to himself, setting Branson’s brush aside and helping Branson to shrug into his tux. Jimmy came around the front to button it and straighten Branson’s tie, thinking of the way that Thomas had always rallied to Jimmy for support and Jimmy to Thomas. 

_“Everyone needs a friend.”_ Thomas had said, though his tone had been so flat and emotionless it had felt like a lie. Jimmy could not remember even having been so insulted in all his life. 

“Oh you know,” Jimmy straightened Branson’s white tie one final time, unable to hold back a dark smile, “all hands on deck. Everyone needs a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JIMMY KENT YA LIL' BASTARD. 
> 
> THOMAS WAS SO CLOSE. 
> 
> (once again thanks so much to my readers/reviewers) your comments mean the world to me.


	20. The Shoddy Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thomas, there’s a woman here to see you.” Anna said, though she didn’t sound too sure of their unsuspected visitor. Thomas set his pen down, confused. He wasn’t expecting anyone; who could it be? 
> 
> “Who is it?” Thomas asked. “A tradeswoman?” 
> 
> “Well, that’s just the thing,” Anna replied, gesturing in confusion, “She says she’s your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome friends, to the long awaited chapter. Yes, the chapter. That chapter.   
> It's by no means the last chapter, or the most important chapter, but it is The Chapter. 
> 
> And I do so hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I would once again like to thank all my wonderful readers/reviewers. I know this story has not been easy nor historically correct and for that I apologize. As I've said before, this is my first DA fanfiction. 
> 
> Also if there are any glaring mistakes, I likewise apologize. I'm doing this project without a Beta, so sometimes things slip my eye.

Jimmy had been waiting for Thomas to come down for the servant’s dinner after the exhausting celebration of a dual proposal. Had been ready to gloat at his irritation and lap up Daisy’s misery at being deprived alone time with her precious Thomas. Yet Jimmy was surprised to find that despite a hard days work and exhaustive travel, Thomas didn’t join the others to eat, and Daisy didn’t seem miserable so much miserable as she seemed miffed when she passed around the dinner plates. 

“It’s not right.” Daisy murmured when inquired by Baxter. “He was so close, he ought to have been able to see his mother and sister at least… All he got to see was his father.” 

Baxter had seemed to lose her appetite, sitting down her spoon and abandoning her soup. 

“The world can be a cruel place.” Baxter had murmured, more to herself than anyone else. 

But the world wasn’t the cruel one, the world hadn’t put Thomas in a precarious position and forced him to return home. That was all Jimmy’s fault, and suddenly Jimmy realized that despite having intended to hurt Daisy he’d ended up hurting Thomas instead. He’d thought for certain that by the time Branson proposed with Pelham that Thomas would have already seen his mother and sister. To get that close, to be only a hair away and then jerked back again? It was like a cruel and unusual punishment… and it was all Jimmy’s fault. He felt like Thomas was on some torture rack and he was the one holding the whip. 

Which was never what he had wanted.

He left the hall abruptly after dinner, taking with him a tray for Thomas made lovingly by Daisy. She’d even thought to put a few small flowers in a tiny vase, which Jimmy thought was an absurd decoration and tossed it as soon as he was upstairs and out of sight. He instead rifled through his own room for a barely touched packet of Woodbines, one that he’d purchased for himself while jazzing it up with Jack Ross only to sit and stare at in a brown mood every time he tried to write lyrics for Thomas’ berceuse. Thomas would appreciate them much more than flowers, Jimmy was certain. 

He tentatively knocked upon Thomas’ door, to hear a very resigned _“Who is it?”_ issue from the other side. 

“It’s me.” Jimmy answered. “Can I…?”   
But he never got a chance to finish his sentence. The words were barely out of his lips before Thomas jerked open his bedroom door. He looked a disheveled wreck, his livery half-disposed of to reveal a man in suspenders and undershirt. Jimmy was taken aback, his heart jumping erratically at the sight of Thomas’s bare shoulders- long and sloping… his collar bone was prominent; his chest was strong and broad. Jimmy felt very small and weak compared to him, a feeling which had once been born on a wind of resentment but now was tinged with something else. Something oddly needy that he didn’t want to think too hard about lest it lead him down the path of no return. His mouth was suddenly dry. 

“Amazing,” Thomas snapped, drawing Jimmy back from his whirling pool of needy thoughts, “Someone knocks on my door and I open it. Do you think you could do the same if it happened to you?” 

Jimmy flushed. He looked down at the tray in his grasp, at the pack of barely touched Woodbines where the little pot of flowers had once been. He offered it silently up to Thomas, who took it with a bitter expression upon his handsome face until Jimmy said “I brought you my pack of smokes. I only smoked two of them so… there’s a good deal left.” 

Thomas stared from the packet of Woodbines to Jimmy; his face was softening. 

“I need to talk to you.” Jimmy admitted, his heart thumping a little as Thomas’ brow furrowed quizzically, “I did something I shouldn’t have. But for good reasons.” 

Thomas sighed, turning away and walked to his desk to set the tray down. He didn’t even bother with dinner, instead fishing through Jimmy’s packet of Woodbines to fish for his lighter in his trouser pockets. The tiny metallic click sounded unnaturally loud in the air as Thomas drew in a deep lung full of smoke to expel it hastily into the air. He looked partly relieved, rubbing his brow as Jimmy shut the door to his bedroom. 

He’d always liked this room; the skylights and the odd furniture. The ugly armchair hidden beneath a red quilt… the beaded lampshade and the black and white photographs of eastern Europe. Most of all the smells, which seemed to permeate the very walls and put Jimmy in a better mood. The brilliantine, cigarette smoke, and deep masculine smell that somehow radiated Thomas. Thomas sighed, perching himself upon the edge of his covered armchair as Jimmy hung back nervously by the door. He suddenly felt even more guilty now that Thomas was physically before him. The deep purple beneath his eyes and bitter facial expression were telling to his horrible day. 

“Who do I have to keep quiet?” Thomas asked, with the tiniest touch of humor to his mellow voice. He began to unlace his shoes, one calve over the thigh of the other as he bent over to tug at the black laces. 

“It’s nothing like that.” Jimmy mumbled, another stab of guilt running through him as he considered that Thomas likely would do just about anything if Jimmy asked him. 

Christ he felt like a bastard. 

“Then what is it?” Thomas asked as he took off his shoes one at a time to lay them beside his arm chair. Jimmy noted how long his toes were, how pale his feet were. He had a prominent arch to his feet; he probably would have made an incredible dancer if he’d been a woman. 

Jimmy tried to imagine Thomas as a woman and found it a surprisingly easy image to bring forth. A beauty with a long nose and carved lips, spools of ebony hair hanging loose over her elegant sloping shoulders. It was an image Jimmy found hard to dispel from his mind as Thomas arched an eyebrow and waited for him to confess. 

“Well?” Thomas asked when Jimmy would not speak, “What have you done? Did you ruin a pair of Branson’s shoes?” 

Jimmy shook his head, utterly tongue tied in his guilt. 

“His jacket?” another head shake, “Well what? You’re as white as a sheet.” 

Jimmy looked to the floor to keep from looking at Thomas, praying to god that Thomas would be as merciful to him now as he had always been in the past. 

_You don’t deserve his mercy_. A nasty voice hissed in Jimmy’s ear. _You don’t deserve anything from him. He’s too good for the likes of you. He loves with all his heart, and what do you love with? Half a thimble, that’s what_. 

Jimmy rubbed at his rose, still looking at the floor. His cheeks were beginning to heat up in shame as he recalled how selflessly Thomas had sacrificed himself for Jimmy at the Thirsk fair. How Thomas had cut corners and cut ties time and time again just to make life a little easier for Jimmy. 

“I…. told Mr. Branson… to… propose.” Jimmy finally bit out; the heat was creeping down his neck now, making him feel horribly hot beneath his valet jacket. 

But Thomas merely scoffed, and Jimmy looked up with concern to catch his eye.   
“I think he already had the idea in his head.” Thomas assured Jimmy with a slightly humored voice. 

“No.” Jimmy shook his head, looking back down at the floor, for Branson had hardly been considering proposing with Bertie Pelham until Jimmy had put the idea in his head. To be fair, Jimmy had gotten the idea from Daisy. She was the real orchestrator of this insanity… but Jimmy couldn’t lay the blame at her feet. He’d been the one to put the idea into Branson’s head. There in, the damage lay, “I told him to… propose with…” He drifted off, looking at the door instead. 

“I told him to propose with Mr. Pelham.” Jimmy finally mumbled. The silence that followed was deafening. 

“What?” Thomas demanded, and his tone was far from angry. Indeed, he sounded genuinely shocked; hurt even, like a child that had just been tormented for sport. Jimmy clenched his jaw to keep from bursting into a spew of apologies that would surely do no good at this point, “You mean, you told him to do a dual proposal? But why?” 

Jimmy would not deny the ugly truth of it all.   
Even if he wished he could. 

“…Because I didn’t want you to be alone with your father…. or Daisy.” Jimmy whispered the name. 

He did not dare look up at Thomas now.   
He was too terrified of what he would see. 

“Jimmy-“ Thomas’ voice was growing more emotional by the second. “Look at me.” 

If only Thomas had begged him to cut off his own arm. Jimmy would have gladly done that instead. Looking at him was far worse. Looking at him meant looking at the damage of his ugly deeds. Jimmy didn’t want to see the evidence. 

But Thomas wasn’t giving him a choice, “Look at me, damnit!” 

Jimmy slowly looked up, teeth gritted tight to keep from letting something insane fly out of his mouth. He found that Thomas had now risen out of the chair, his cigarette utterly forgotten between his fingers. 

Thomas’ face was one of utter distress, his brow pinched and his eyes wide. His mouth was partly open to take in slight sucking breathes. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wet. 

Looking at Thomas in this state and knowing that he was responsible for it was akin to torture for Jimmy; just as he’d put Thomas on the rack with the whip, now it was his turn to feel the biting sting. 

“I was going to see my family!” Thomas cried; Jimmy flinched at how loud and emotional his voice was, “For the first time in fifteen years, I was going to see my _bloody_ family!” Thomas cursed, and Jimmy flinched again; he wished he could look away but for some reason his eyes were locked. Thomas had bidden Jimmy to look at him; how could Jimmy disobey? “And you- you told Branson to propose with Pelham, even when you knew I would get drug back?! All because you didn’t want me to be alone with my fiancé!?” 

“I- I was afraid for you!” Jimmy protested, for to hear the truth laid so bare before him was an ugly and bitter thing. He realized just how desperate and shallow he must sound, and his self-hatred suddenly began to grow to new heights. “I thought your father was going to do something bad-!” 

“Oh, don’t you even bloody lie to me, I know why you did it!” Thomas spat, and Jimmy took as step back only to hit the closed door as Thomas advanced upon him. Thomas seemed to have grown a foot in the last five minutes, to the point where he practically towered over Jimmy in his rage. Jimmy cowered against the door, panicking as Thomas glared down upon him with all the wrath of a vengeful archangel. “You did it because you’re selfish and you didn’t want me to do something you didn’t like!” 

_Selfish_. The word bounced off of Jimmy’s brain like a grenade with the pin pulled. 

“I’m selfish?!” Jimmy demanded, beating his fists against his breast even as his hands shook in fear, “I’m not the one marrying a girl I don’t love- leadin’ her on just because it’s what society would like!” 

“I was this close!” Thomas screamed, and he shoved a hand right under Jimmy’s nose to show his thumb and pointer fingers, pinched and tight so that only the smallest of gaps was between them. “I was this close to seein’ my mother, my sister- my twin sister, Jimmy! She was right upstairs! She wasn’t even ten feet away from me and you took her away just because you wanted me back here, pining over you!” 

And it was true.   
All the fight fled from Jimmy, all the determination to lay the blame at someone else’s feet gone as he instead whimpered and clutched his hands to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding beneath his fingers, and desperately struggled for something to salvage the situation as his throat clenched and his eyes burned. 

He wished the truth wasn’t so selfish, so ugly, but it was. It was, and there was nothing Jimmy could do to deny it without flat-out lying to Thomas.   
And Jimmy wasn’t willing to do that even if a gun was pressed to his temple. 

“I- I just-“ Jimmy’s voice was getting smaller and smaller, “I didn’t want to… to do this anymore-“ 

Jimmy would have given anything in that moment for the fighting to stop; the fighting, the denying, the hiding, the miscommunication. When all of it deprived him of Thomas, and everything that Thomas meant to him. 

“To do what?!” Thomas demanded with an ugly scowl, “The right thing, the normal thing, the thing that doesn’t involve you being in the spotlight every five seconds of the day!?” 

_“He’s a prancing peacock!”_ Jimmy’s grandfather had declared, _“He’s not satisfied till everyone’s looking at him!”_

Jimmy swallowed, but the knot in his throat was building, and Jimmy blinked rapidly to try and dispel the burning behind his eyes. Instead it only served to make them burn more, and he panicked at the feeling of moisture upon his face. He hurriedly scrubbed with the back of his hand, trying to hide his trembling mouth behind his hand. He looked way from Thomas, instead focusing on a point somewhere by his right elbow to avoid his face. 

“Thomas please-“ Jimmy heard his voice crack, “I just- I just-“ 

But Thomas cut him off again.   
“Don’t bloody cry in front of me, like you’ve had a bad day!” Thomas berated him. 

Jimmy felt his face screwing up against his will, and hid himself behind both his hands.   
In that moment he hated himself. Truly and utterly hated himself. 

“I am terrified of my father, Jimmy.” Thomas admitted, and now it was his voice to grow emotional. “But I faced him because I wanted to see my family again. I risked everything today- if he had thought something was wrong, I would have suffered horrendously! Jimmy-!” 

Thomas grabbed his wrists, struggling to pull Jimmy’s hands away from his face. Jimmy wouldn’t allow him, desperate to keep Thomas from seeing him cry. 

“Jimmy he would have killed me gladly if he thought I was funny! But I still went before him, and thank god Daisy was with me and could talk some sense of mercy into him- Jimmy-“ 

Jimmy still wouldn’t let Thomas pull his hands away. He hunched his shoulders, trying to turn away and back into the door. Thomas wouldn’t let him. 

“Jimmy, I was so close. I was so close!” Thomas’ voice cracked. “I was so fucking close, and then Carson rang. And you- you were the root of it. Why did you do it to me, Jimmy? Why?” 

But the answer to that question meant Jimmy would have to leap off the cliff of safety into the waters of insanity. Into the waters of emotion and truth that he would surely drown in should Thomas not hold him upright every second of the day. Jimmy did not know what lay at the bottom of that ugly ocean but he was certain it would kill him. Was certain it would turn him into something less of a man, less of a human- that he would be left a mere shell of what a soul should be… and nothing would ever be normal about him again. 

Everyone would look at him, see him, and know.   
He would die alone if he plummeted off that edge, he was certain. 

“I’m sorry Thomas-“ Jimmy choked out between wet fingers, “I’m sorry, Thomas I didn’t know. I didn’t know-“ 

“No you didn’t know, and I’m the one who suffered for it. Again.” Thomas bit out. 

Jimmy drew in a great sniveling breath, suddenly wishing he could flee from this room- flee from Thomas and never have to look him in the face again. But there was a hand in his hair, smoothing the golden waves back from his flushed forehead. 

“… Why did you do this to me, Jimmy?” Thomas whispered, and his voice sounded so heart broken that Jimmy couldn’t bear it anymore. He turned, pressing his face hard into the wood as he groped blindly with one hand for the doorknob. 

He found it at long last and pulled the door open, jerking it hard as Thomas tried to keep it closed with one hand. He managed to get it open just a hair and pulled hard, forcing himself out of the room with the meagre wedge he’d been provided so that he momentarily had to squeeze. As he fled back to his own bedroom he heard Thomas slam the door to his bedroom behind Jimmy’s back. 

It rang out in the hall with all the resounding force of a nail being hammered into a coffin. 

That night Jimmy did not sleep, could not sleep, and instead tossed in his rickety bed considering the consequences of his life. 

He leave in the dead of night, could flee for London and the safety of Jack Ross. But what would he find there waiting for him? Empty tunes and hollow gin bottles that gave him no answers… and Jack would know everything had gone pear shaped in a heartbeat. He’d probably see the state Jimmy was in and turn him out- force him to return to Downton to fix his messes. Jack didn’t believe in taking on baggage. In Jack’s book, if you had a problem you corrected it. 

In Jimmy’s book, if you had a problem you ran from it. 

When the sun rose, Jimmy felt more exhausted than ever, and though he had not yet packed his valise nor bought a train ticket he felt like his foot was already half-way out the door. What could he do? What could he say to salvage the situation? To spare his relationship with Thomas from the brink of ruin? 

It terrified him to imagine a life without Thomas- without a man whom he’d come to rely upon for support and self-esteem. Jimmy was certain that without Thomas he’d flounder and fall, that without Thomas he’d die a broken, shallow man. That he’d probably drink himself to death in some London jazz hall, or get his throat slit in a back alley some dark rainy night after a turned game of cards. He’d go looking for Thomas only to find trouble, and trouble would destroy him in a heart beat without Thomas to protect him. 

So it was that Jimmy returned to the breakfast table firmly wishing he could find a train to jump out in front of. 

Thomas looked just as wrecked as he, though both of them had had the decency to comb their hair and put on fresh trousers. They looked like a pair of grave robbers, with each of them sporting ugly gashes beneath their eyes from the prior nights insanity. Oddly, Baxter was also looking miserable as she took her seat next to Jimmy, across from Thomas. Jimmy noted that she seemed to have not slept well either, and sighed as she caught Thomas’ eye. 

Thomas gave her the tiniest bitter smile but offered nothing for Jimmy.   
Terrified but desperate for some type of resolution, Jimmy took up the plate of toast in the middle of the breakfast table and tried to pass it to Thomas for him to take; it was almost a mock-up of that fateful morning after “the incident” when a frightened Thomas had tried to make silent peace with him before Carson knew the full damage. 

Just as before with Jimmy, Thomas only offered him the darkest of glares that threatened full out violence if Jimmy pressed him again. Panicking, Jimmy quickly set the plate of toast back down. 

“What’s wrong?” Baxter asked, watching the whole interaction with sudden unease. Thomas said nothing damning, but offered Baxter another bitter smile as he took a sip of his tea. 

“Nothing.” Thomas murmured. His normally soothing voice was like acid to Jimmy’s ears. “Nothing at all.” 

Baxter looked none too sure. She glanced at Jimmy, and Jimmy quickly put his hands in his lap to hide their shaking from her keen eyes. 

Baxter turned her attention to Thomas who was still yet to touch his plate.   
Jimmy was in the same boat, famished but unable to touch a crumb. 

“I’m so sorry about yesterday.” Baxter murmured, “Did you see Margret at all?” 

“No.” Thomas said, and there was such bitterness in his voice that even Mrs. Hughes cast him a worried glance as she ate another spoon full of beans, “No I did not.” 

Thomas reached into the vest of his livery and pulled out an unopened letter. He handed it back to Baxter who took it at once, quite somber. 

“I’m sorry, Phyllis.” Thomas said. Baxter just shook her head, pocketing the letter beneath the table. 

“I am truly sorry, Thomas.” Baxter repeated, “That is horrific luck. I know Margret wanted to see you so badly-“ 

“She’ll live.” Thomas cut Baxter off before she could say another damning word. 

But Jimmy could feel his throat tightening again, and suddenly he knew that he wouldn’t be able to eat even if someone pried his jaw open and shoved a whole mince pie in his mouth. He’d choke to death first. 

Jerking up from his seat, Jimmy quickly pushed his chair back in and left the hall even as Mrs. Hughes called after him. Jimmy did not return her question, did not have an answer to give. All he had was an empty berceuse and a barely touched packet of Woodbines… and both of them were in Thomas’ hands. 

Jimmy was disgraced in his shame. He could sink no lower. 

~*~

The entire day, Thomas secluded himself in Carson’s office, working on the inventory. He could barely make any progress, his mind was so damn muddled with rage, betrayal, and love’s keen sting. 

He couldn’t have felt more betrayed if he was Christ on the cross. 

Had it been anyone else, truly any other individual on earth to take Margret away from him when he’d been so close, Thomas would never be able to forgive them. He’d be tempted to scheme, to make them suffer in horrendous ways, but instead he could only feel horribly bitter and wallow in a could of misery and self-pity as he brooded over the fact that it was Jimmy to betray him. Jimmy, whom he trusted more than any other. 

Thomas knew that Jimmy had a mean streak; Thomas loved it, usually. He’d delighted in watching Jimmy torment Alfred over Ivy (despite the fact that Thomas had desperately wished for Jimmy to court him instead of that blooming kitchen maid). Jimmy had always had a saucy mouth, cutting the dumb and the desperate if they dared to question him or get too close. Thomas had been the same in his youth, a practiced swordsman by the time that he and Jimmy had met- the pair of them could have bounced off of each other. Could have become such dire enemies that the entire downstairs would have cracked and crumbled under the force. Instead, they’d swung in tandem, become like the dancers of a dangerous tango swinging about one another, supporting one another even as they struggled with the rest of the world and their place in it. 

Thomas wondered if Jimmy knew just how essential he was to Thomas’ sense of self. He doubted it. 

It terrified him to imagine a life without Jimmy- without the soul on whom he’d come to rely upon for support and self-esteem. Thomas was certain that without Jimmy he’d be utterly crushed like a tin can under someone’s heel, that without Jimmy he’d die a broken, shallow man. He’d probably commit suicide, slitting his wrists while Daisy slept peacefully in their marriage bed and their children dreamed in their cots none the wiser. He’d cut his throat, crying silently over a gramophone record so that Jimmy’s voice would be the last voice in his ears. He’d go looking for Jimmy only to find death, and death would take him in an instant without Jimmy to save him. 

And still- _and even still_ \- Jimmy had betrayed him. 

There was a knock upon the door, a timid tiny thing. Thomas already knew who was on the other side. He did not look up from his inventory as Jimmy opened the door, did not dare to do so lest he glared and make Jimmy cry again. 

God he’d felt like a bastard last night. Even if he was technically the ‘victim’, he’d never meant to make Jimmy cry. It was worse than the time Thomas had made a jab at William for his dead mother. At least William had had the decency to punch him in the face. 

“…Mr. Barrow…” Jimmy’s voice was a broken thing, weak and cracked.   
Jimmy hadn’t called Thomas “Mr. Barrow” since the night of the fire. Thomas set down his pen, and turned slowly in his swivel chair to see Jimmy hiding just in the crack of the door. He was carrying one of Branson’s more expensive coats in his hands like one might carry a dead body; his eyes were puffy and red. He was beaten, broken, and it burned Thomas to know he’d made Jimmy so. 

It also churned him to know that even in such a dire state, Jimmy was utterly beautiful to him. As if his misery was a magnifying glass, and Thomas was the inspector. 

“I… I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment.” Jimmy whispered. 

“I am a very busy man, Mr. Kent.” Thomas replied, unwilling to call him ‘James’ in that moment. It would be too ugly, too damning, “I suggest if you have something to say that you say it promptly.” 

Jimmy’s bottom lip quivered. Thomas quelled the instinct to rise from his seat. To take Jimmy’s blotchy face into his hands. 

“… I’m sorry for what I did, Mr. Barrow.” and there could be no denying Jimmy’s broken voice just how much he clearly meant it, “I feel horrible about it. I did it because I didn’t want you to be alone with Daisy- because I-“ 

Jimmy’s voice cracked, “Because I miss you.” and at this he chewed his lip as if he could not bear to say any more, as if he regretted leaving himself so bare in the first place. 

Thomas had risen from his chair, despite his earlier inclination to remain seated at all costs. There was an aching in his breast, a longing that could not be denied or put asunder. 

“I miss you Thomas- Mr. Barrow-“ Jimmy corrected himself as if he even needed correcting at all, and even as Thomas opened his mouth to urge him otherwise, Jimmy plundered on, “and I- I just want you back. I want our friendship back. Please?” 

The silence that fell between them then was so soft, so fragile, that even the tiniest bit of pressure might crack it. Thomas could not help it, he felt all his resentment sliding away at those lovely words. Words that he’d never imagined gracing Jimmy’s lips. He’s sooner surmise the sky falling down upon their heads than Jimmy openly admitting to needing him, to wanting his friendship, and his heart pounding in his aching breast as he took a hesitant step forward. 

There was still the peculiar presence of that coat though. 

“… Why are you holding that coat like it’s a dead body?” Thomas asked. 

Jimmy’s bottom lip quivered. He looked five seconds away from crying again, “Because I murdered it.” He admitted. 

Surely not, it couldn’t be that bad. 

Thomas reached out, and gently took the coat from Jimmy’s arms to open its arms and reveal a bizarre stain atop an already set stain; clearly Jimmy had been dabbling in the soaps trying to get something out only to make it even worse. There could be no denying the damage. 

But it was fixable even if Jimmy didn’t realize it. 

“My god.” Thomas tried for a joke, his tone soft in the hopes of comforting, “They ought to call Scotland Yard on you.” Jimmy sniffed as Thomas folded the coat over one arm, determined to right it just as soon as he’d set things at peace with Jimmy. Jimmy was back to looking at the floor again, his breathing shallow as if he was terrified of looking at Thomas. 

Thomas couldn’t stand it. “Jimmy, look at me.” 

But Jimmy just shook his head, his shame so obvious and heartbreaking that Thomas’ own emotions were suddenly put through the ringer as Jimmy blurted out, “I’m truly sorry Mr. Barrow. I’m a selfish- stupid, selfish, prancing peacock-“ 

Jimmy’s chin was violently quivering now. He smacked a hand over his mouth to try and hide it even as his eyes burned. 

Thomas couldn’t stand it, he reached out with his free hand to cup Jimmy’s neck, stroking the tense flesh much in the same way that he’d done back when Jimmy had been playing piano in the servant’s hall so many years ago. This time Jimmy did not freeze under the touch. Instead he seemed to melt, and Thomas’ heart panged in ugly stabs of regret as he saw a few stray tears slip out of the corners of Jimmy’s pinched eyes. He would not open them now, to look at the floor or Thomas. 

Sod the coat; Thomas tossed it upon his abandoned chair. The force of the heavy fabric twisted the swivel seat a little as Thomas brought his now free hand up to Jimmy’s sodden cheeks to brush them dry. 

“No you’re not.” Thomas whispered, “And I’m sorry I even suggested it.” 

But Jimmy was still crying, even if he didn’t make a sound. He merely sat there quivering beneath Thomas’ hands, one hand clasped over his quivering mouth and the other hastily rubbing at his swollen eyes. He must be exhausted- Thomas doubted that Jimmy had gotten any more sleep than he did; he certainly hadn’t eaten breakfast either. 

Thomas paused in brushing Jimmy’s wet cheeks to reach into a pocket for his handkerchief. He pulled it loose, and pressed it into Jimmy’s hand even as he swiped over his eyes again. At this point, his fist would be soaked. 

“Here.” Thomas whispered; Jimmy took the handkerchief without opening his eyes, fingers finding the soft cloth to press it hard against his red and soaking eyelids. “Y’shouldn’t do that with yer hands. Y’ might accidentally stain a garment.” Thomas’ Stockport accent slipped out in his emotion. 

Jimmy nodded, clumsily dabbing at his eyes. He seemed to be breathing in the fabric, holding the open handkerchief to his nose as Thomas brushed a few limp gold waves off of Jimmy’s forehead and allowed him to wipe his face in silence. 

“… I’ll take care of that stupid coat, so don’t you worry about it.” Thomas assured him. Jimmy nodded once again without saying a word. 

His tears seemed to be slowing, and for that Thomas was grateful. He didn’t want Jimmy to worry, not even for a minute; the bitter truth of the matter was that Thomas could never leave Jimmy. Would never want to leave Jimmy. Even if Jimmy betrayed him twenty times again, Thomas would still be pulled to him, still be inclined to love him. The stupidity of it all was that Thomas preferred Jimmy’s betrayals to Daisy’s affections, because at least Jimmy’s betrayals were honest. Neither of them were ‘nice’ people meant for ‘nice’ endings. When they stood together, sneering at the world, they were wholly themselves. 

Every inch of Jimmy consumed Thomas, made him whole and happy. Even that ridiculous betrayal part. 

“C’mere you.” Thomas mumbled, so overtaken with emotion that he did not care who might walk in and see. His hand slid from the side of Jimmy’s face to the back of his head, and as he pulled Jimmy into him, Jimmy went willingly. They collided softly, and though Jimmy did not drop his hands to hold Thomas back, he leaned into Thomas’ chest with such force that Thomas was certain Jimmy would be able to feel his heart pounding beneath his shirt. He kept a hand in Jimmy’s curls, the other upon his back, and as he laid his chin atop Jimmy’s head he was suddenly overcome with the sudden sweet smell of Brilliantine and peppermint. The tiniest throw backs of gin that seemed to go with Jimmy no matter where he went. 

All the anxiety and tension fled from him. He was left a boneless left, mushing and molding over Jimmy like unbaked dough hiding a sweet tasting jam in its gooey center. 

“I’m sorry-“ Jimmy mumbled into his chest. 

“Shuttup.” Thomas muttered back. “It’s fine.” 

And it was, even if it wasn’t. 

~*~

As it so turned out, Jimmy had not murdered the coat. What Jimmy _had_ done was put gum Arabic atop a grease stain an attempt to cover it up and instead had made it worse. It was an easy fix in Thomas’ experience, and he took the coat to a hot iron with a bit of paper pressed between so that the grease came right out even at the edges. The final touch was a bit of flannel wrapped around Thomas’ finger dipped in spirits of wine, and so the gum Arabic was removed bit by bit till nothing was left but the tiniest discoloration in the fabric. Branson would never notice it; the idiot probably hadn’t even known he had a stain on his jacket in the first place. 

Catching Jimmy was a difficult thing to do; after crying into Thomas’ chest Jimmy seemed to be utterly embarrassed and refused to stay still for a moment during the day. Thomas was pleased to note that Jimmy held onto his handkerchief though. He hoped Jimmy would never give it back, that Jimmy would carry it with him always. 

Both Thomas and Jimmy were present at the servant’s dinner that night; when Jimmy finished his tea, Thomas offered him another cup. When Jimmy accepted it, he only met Thomas’ eyes for the briefest of seconds and there was clear embarrassment upon his face. 

That wouldn’t do. 

After dinner Jimmy fled the hall like a man guilty of a crime, no doubt sequestering himself in his room. Thomas had to put off John, who had questions about his visit to Stockport, in order to head upstairs and catch Jimmy off before he tried to go to bed early. He used the excuse of Branson’s fixed coat, laying it over his arm as he ascended the stairs to head into the attic. The hall was hot and stuffy- they were right in the thick of the summer heat and every window was thrown open in the hope of tempting in a breeze. 

Thomas knocked softly upon Jimmy’s door, and when Jimmy opened it he did not seem so much surprised to see Thomas as he was embarrassed. 

Jimmy pursed his lips, looking down at his shoes. He was in vest and shirt sleeves, his jacket discarded over the back of his desk chair. Thomas noted with a jump of the heart that his handkerchief was tucked messily into Jimmy’s vest pocket. 

He tried for a smile, though it was difficult; Thomas had never found it easy to smile ever since childhood, even with Jimmy. Jimmy was growing flushed as the silence ticked on. 

“So it turns out you didn’t murder the coat so much as you assaulted it.” Thomas offered the coat back over to Jimmy who took it. “But I patched it up all the same.” 

“I-“ Jimmy cut himself off, pursing his lips as he clutched Mr. Branson’s saved coat to his chest, “Mr. Branson gave me some whiskey, would you like some?” 

Thomas shook his head with a somber smile, “I don’t drink.” 

Jimmy nodded; neither of them made to leave the shadow of Jimmy’s door. 

“… I spent the whole day wondering what you’d look like as a woman.” Jimmy suddenly admitted, and Thomas bit down the tiniest laugh as Jimmy flushed. “… I don’t know why I admitted that just now.” 

Thomas laughed aloud now, leaning upon the door frame as he crossed his arms over his chest. It was funny that Jimmy should wonder- frankly Thomas could show him absolute proof of what he’d look like as a woman. 

He pondered over Margret’s picture in his vest pocket. Of the picture of his mother, and his father. He wondered what Jimmy would think if he saw them. 

“… Wait right here.” Thomas murmured, straightening back up, “I have something I want to show you.” He paused for a moment to pull at the starch of his bow tie, wishing to god he could remove it in the late hour and sweltering heat, “D’you mind if I get a little more comfortable first?” 

“God no.” Jimmy said a little too quickly, and pulled back as if suddenly embarrassed. He looked down at his feet again, “I think I’ll do the same.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Thomas said, and he turned to leave for his own room. 

Once safely inside, Thomas disrobed from his tails, vest, and shirt, unlacing his boots and letting his suspenders fall to his hips. He groaned, rolling his shoulders to hear them pop several times as he raided his top bureau drawer for the picture he sought. His fingers danced lightly over the leather-bound copy of _Maurice_. Taking his time to allow Jimmy a moment of privacy, Thomas picked up his new packet of Woodbines and returned back to Jimmy’s room to find the door ajar and Jimmy just inside. 

He was in pale green pajamas now, though the weather was far too hot to warrant a shirt, and instead he wore an undershirt that was tainted with sweat underneath his pectorals and armpits. Thomas smiled, shutting the door behind him as Jimmy sank down at the foot of his bed to rest his neck against his mattress. He’d pulled out a bottle of whiskey, his chosen tumbler really a chipped coffee mug, and poured himself a decent amount as Thomas pulled out a cigarette for himself and Jimmy while sliding down to sit on the floor. Jimmy took the offered cigarette, setting aside his whiskey to shuffle through a tiny box of matches that he struck and used to light Thomas’. They bent their heads close to keep the light between them, Thomas’ hands cupped around Jimmy’s flame as Jimmy proceeded to use the cherry of Thomas’ cigarette to light his own. They sat back, each blowing out trails of smoke as Jimmy took a rather large gulp of whiskey as Thomas relaxed beside Jimmy with his head against the edge of the mattress and his back to the bed. 

Thomas sighed, passing over the meagre stack of photographs so that Jimmy could take them. The tips of his fingers were beaded with whiskey. 

“I showed these to Daisy on our way up to Stockport.” Thomas explained as Jimmy looked from Thomas to the pictures confused, “I don’t know why but… I need to show you too.” 

Jimmy flushed, though it could have very well been the whiskey he was sucking down.   
“I wanna see.” Jimmy agreed, looking down at the pictures. The top one was Thomas’ mother holding Margret and Thomas to her side while Daniel sat upon her knee. The one underneath was of Thomas’ father out in front of the shop. 

“This is my family.” Thomas explained, his tone warming as Jimmy’s gaze grew soft with understanding. He flipped between the two top photos, amazed, from the kindly expression of Thomas’ mother to the stern posture of Thomas’ father. 

“This is your father?” Jimmy asked, gesturing to the second picture. Thomas nodded. Jimmy took one good look, sizing him up and down, and then promptly hid the photograph beneath all the others as if he didn’t want to look at the man anymore. Thomas smiled in spite of himself, enjoying the way Jimmy effectively dismissed his father without so much as a blink of an eye. Instead Jimmy focused on the top picture, of Thomas’ mother holding all three of her children close. As if they were stray cats that might slip away if she didn’t hold onto the scruff of their necks tight enough. 

“And your mother.” Jimmy touched the edge of her face, the pad of his finger dancing over her coiled black hair. Thomas nodded again. 

“That was my twin sister Margret.” Thomas explained, pointing to Margret’s face. “And my younger brother Daniel. He passed away during the war.” 

They were shoulder to shoulder now, with Thomas smoking and Jimmy drinking; Jimmy seldom ever smoked his cigarettes, even if he lit one up. Thomas usually ended up finishing it off for him. The skin of their bare arms touching was almost as erotic as sex to Thomas, and he breathed deep to control the nervous pounding of his heart. 

“And that’s you.” Jimmy said, a slight smirk in his voice as he tapped Thomas’ scowling face. The present Thomas snorted in spite of himself, remembering just how surly he’d been in that ridiculous outfit. “So serious.” 

“Seriously pissed.” Thomas muttered as he smoked. “I hated that outfit, and chucked it as soon as I could.” 

“I think you look like… a little posh tosser.” Jimmy chuckled. Thomas nudged him, nearly making Jimmy spill his whiskey as he choked on his drink. 

Jimmy tucked the picture away, focusing on the third, and was amazed to find himself staring at the headshot of a beautiful woman. Jimmy did not know that he was looking upon the face of Thomas’ twin sister Margret. 

“… That’s my sister now.” Thomas explained as Jimmy stroked the edges of Margret’s face, “My twin sister. Suppose that’s what I’d look like as a woman.” 

Jimmy was staggered.   
“… She’s beautiful.” Jimmy whispered, as if he could hardly even believe it himself. Margret smiled up at them both; Thomas smoked in silence, watching with tender fondness as Jimmy let his fingers trail over her sharp jaw and lovely almond eyes. 

“She and our mother were the only two people in the whole world that ever cared if I was happy. If I smiled. If I ate.” Thomas paused, recalling in youth how Margret had kept poking him beneath the kitchen table till he’d finished his peas. “I love my sister, I haven’t seen her in fifteen years. That’s why I got so angry at you the other day.” 

Jimmy bowed his head, and Thomas could see shame starting to creep back into his facial features. Thomas nudged him with his elbow, hoping to remind Jimmy silently that there were no hard feelings between them. 

“I got my hopes up, that’s all.” Thomas whispered, Jimmy flushed all the same, “I miss her. I miss being loved by someone. Being treasured and valued. I was all three with her. And she were to me too. It’ll be a golden day when we meet again, y’know?” 

~*~

Yes. Jimmy did know. 

He of all people could understand the value of being loved and treasured. When he’d been first footman, Carson had breathed fire down his neck every ten minutes, and Jimmy might have cracked like a trodden eggshell if it hadn’t been for Thomas swooping in to save him every five seconds. Jimmy had found himself drifting to Thomas, hoping to be near him in case Carson walked around the corner and started hollering for something done poorly. 

Jimmy suddenly realized how incredibly personal this moment was, with he and Thomas cuddled up on the floor of his bedroom in nothing but undershirts and mismatched bottoms. For the past weeks they’d been dancing around one another, each too busy with work and avoiding their feelings to have a sensible conversation. Had he been in any other state of mind, he might have banked on this moment. Tried to reason with Thomas and make him see the error of his ways. As it stood, all Jimmy could do was sit there stare; stare at Thomas, stare at the floor, stare at photographs- 

And then, Jimmy knew exactly what he wanted to do. What he ought to do. 

“I- let me show you something.” Jimmy said and he sat his half finished whiskey aside to putter across the room and fish through his meager belongings that he’d hastily tucked into his desk drawer. He didn’t have much; his mother’s wedding ring, and his father’s pipe. Jimmy didn’t smoke, save for cigarettes with Thomas, so it mostly sat unbothered in a drawer. Jimmy left it there now, instead fishing for the one picture he had of his family- a group shot that showed everyone in their Sunday best clustered around his aging grandparents. Jimmy had been seven when the photograph was taken. 

He returned to Thomas at the foot of his bed, squatting back down and kicking his legs out so that he briefly bumped ankles with Thomas as he handed over his family photograph. Thomas took it, curious, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his carved mouth as he beheld Jimmy’s entire family in one shot. 

“What a group.” Thomas said, and it was an accurate statement. 

Jimmy’s father had had four brothers, and each of them had had a wife and children. Each brother had died: one for pneumonia, one from the war, one from suicide, and one from a horrific work accident involving a horse and buggy. Consequently, each wife had been scattered to the wind, returning to her original family with her children so that at the end of that day despite having eight cousins, Jimmy was only certain two of them were still alive. Doris and Mildred Kent both were from Jimmy’s uncle Robert, who had been found one bleak January morning hanging from the neck in a neighbor’s barn. No one had been sure why he’d killed himself, though Jimmy had heard rumors about fatal love that made his mother cry and his father turn sour. Doris and Mildred had returned with their mother Ethel to Liverpool, and (as far as Jimmy knew) were working as shop girls while their mother spun away into a tidy retirement. Jimmy had been the only boy in the Kent family, and had been the pride and joy of his grandparents until one day he’d been caught out allowing his girl cousins to dress him in their church clothes. They’d been playing some silly game- a wedding or what have you- and Jimmy had been elected the bride by unanimous choice. They’d painted his face, put a veil on his head, and had even drug out a pair of his mother’s shoes for him to wear despite him being four and barely sturdy enough to stand even when _not_ in heels. His grandfather had walked in, seen him in clopping around like a flapper, and had promptly given Jimmy a spanking. It had hurt him so much, had frightened him so badly, that as soon as he could he’d run away from his grandfather with his bottom still burning to find his mother having tea with two of his aunts. They’d been just a little shocked to see Jimmy in runny mascara, lipstick, a Sunday dress, and one white heeled shoe. Jimmy had been wailing at the top of his lungs, and just like an angel his mother had scooped him up and promptly carried him out of the room to wash his face and find her missing shoe. 

In the family photograph, Jimmy’s mother and father were on the outskirts of the entire group, with Jimmy between them and one of their hands on each of his shoulders. His grandparents were in the center, sitting down on ancient chairs and looking very stately. Jimmy held in a shudder as his eyes glazed over his stern and forbearing grandfather’s face. Even now, with him dead and Jimmy far beyond his meagre reign of power, Jimmy still felt like his grandfather could see him and disapprove of him. Scold him for every little thing that he did. 

He chose to instead focus on his parents, which was something he seldom ever did for the feeling of emotion it forced up. Jimmy had been incredibly fond of his mother, devoted even, and looking at her face now only served to make him feel twinges of pain at the fact that he would never have tea with her again. Never sit and watch her sew on a rainy day. 

She’d had blonde curly hair, much like Jimmy, and had cut it off outlandishly short in an attempt to keep with the style. For that day, she’d had on a white pouter pigeon blouse and a bright red trumpet skirt, scandalizing his traditional grandmother as she rouged her lips and powdered her cheeks. His father had been a rather hard-jawed fellow with a prominent mustache and a natural coif in his chestnut hair. With his dark suit and broad shoulders, Jimmy’s father had always felt rather… unnerving… to Jimmy as a child. Like a bomb just waiting to go off. His mother had forsworn up and down that his father had loved him, but Jimmy just hadn’t been sure. Sometimes he was almost certain his father was disappointed in him too. Like everyone had hated him but his mother. 

“My father had four brothers.” Jimmy explained as Thomas looked over the photograph, “That was our entire family.” 

Jimmy said nothing to the location of himself or his mother; he wanted to see if Thomas could find him. But Thomas slid his finger right over, and tapped atop Jimmy’s mother’s heart-shaped face with a knowing smile. Jimmy took his cigarette from him to suck in a deep breath. 

“Me mum.” Jimmy concurred. Thomas chuckled a little to himself. 

“She’s beautiful.” Thomas complimented, and a warm feeling spread through Jimmy’s limbs at the gentility in Thomas’ deep voice, “She was kind, you can see it in her eyes.” Thomas slid his finger just to the right, to land atop Jimmy’s father’s face. “Father?” 

Jimmy nodded, looking down. In a way he didn’t want to look at the picture himself. For some reason, looking at the picture hurt, and Jimmy seldom ever took it out from his valise unless he absolutely had to. It was easier just to pretend he didn’t have a family. That no one had ever loved him, and he’d never suffered loss. 

When he looked at his parents, he couldn’t live in that lie. Maybe Thomas understood. 

“My family… didn’t like me.” Jimmy managed to scrounge up. Thomas frowned, but said nothing. When they were like this, together and alone, they set conversations at their own pace, “I never knew why, until now.” 

“Why didn’t your family like you?” 

“Cause I were a show off.” Jimmy admitted, and he was blunt in his self-deprecation, “My grandfather hated me the most. Called me a prancin’ pony. Told me da’ that I ought to feel his belt.” Jimmy glanced at Thomas to catch Thomas nodded in understanding, “I was so scared of my father… of him beating me.” Jimmy admitted. 

He wondered if Thomas knew just how much it took out of him to admit a thing like that.   
But Thomas was smiling at Jimmy in a sweet and simple way that stole his bitterness from him, and so he pushed on. 

“He never did beat me.” Jimmy admitted, “Just had to yell at me and I’d be in a puddle cryin’… so when you told me the other day about your own da, I figured…” 

_I figured he frightened you too_. 

Thomas’ smile turned the slightest bit bitter as Jimmy’s voice drifted away, and as silence reclaimed their conversation once more, Thomas took it upon himself to refill Jimmy’s empty whiskey. The clink of glass broke the tension as Thomas took out another cigarette and Jimmy struck up another light. For a minute Thomas simply stared at Jimmy, a hand above them both to rest atop Jimmy’s mattress. He toyed with his hair, pushing inky locks out of his face; his Brilliantine hold was utterly gone after a long day. 

Jimmy had never been more enraptured by Thomas than he was in that moment. The tiny details of his visage, the little lines around his eyes and the green flecks therein. The curve of his lips and the shade of his skin. Something a hair darker than porcelain… Thomas reminded Jimmy of moonlight captured in a bottle. Of a fresh gin, cold over ice and in the perfect glass that was yet to start sweating. Of the perfect lyrics to a beautiful berceuse… always just out of grasp but… lovely. Lovely in every way. 

Thomas was still staring at him. 

“When I was twelve, I started sneaking out of my house and going to this bar on the edge of town. Some local hole in the wall that was known for its Bohemian rapport.” Thomas said.   
Jimmy said nothing, sensing a story was at hand. He was suddenly enraptured, wanting to know every detail of Thomas’ past. 

“Writers used to go there, starvin, penniless… and I’d take em my savings, and buy them sandwiches and beer. And all I’d ask for in return was a good story. Any story really. So long as it were new. For two years, every Saturday unless I couldn’t or… who knew what… I’d go. And get a story. And give them my brass farthings. Then one day this chap comes in and he tells me he’s written this incredible story. Brilliant story… called Maurice.” Thomas smiled fondly, tilting his head to the side. 

“About a man who loves another man.” Thomas whispered, and it felt like gold pouring through Jimmy’s veins. Such a strange dark desire, a secret one could only whisper to the earth if no one else were around. Here Thomas was, giving it over- giving it willingly. Lovingly. 

He could not have given Jimmy a more precious gift if he had encrusted it in diamonds. 

“It was my darkest secret. My deepest fear that everyone would find out. That my family would discover what I was and that I would be cast out into the streets. I knew it was dangerous but I took the manuscript anyways. And I devoured it. I cherished it. He told me that he never thought it would be published, that he only had two copies… but he was starving and desperate for an ale. And he gave me that second copy like it were gold. And it was.”

_Yes_ , Jimmy found himself nodding, _Yes I completely understand_.   
For what was this conversation, if not gold? 

“One night, I come back from being out at the bar, it’s late at night. I sneak in through the shop window and creep up the stairs… and I see my bedroom door open. And all my manuscripts, save for Maurice, laid out on the mattress.” Thomas paused, his grin slackening. 

Jimmy’s whiskey was still untouched. He found he couldn’t drink it until he knew the end of Thomas’ story… and he feared it. He feared what that end would be. 

“And my father. Standing over my bed.” 

Jimmy shuddered, a breath slipping past his lips though it brought him no oxygen and barely any relief. 

“And he says “where you been?” and I say “out”, and he says “out where?” and I couldn’t even reply. Maurice was in my hands. I’d had it with me at the bar. He see it, says “what you got there”, tries to take it from me. I say “It’s private” he says “not in this house” and he starts chasin’ me.” 

It was Jimmy’s nightmare in the flesh and blood, and he wished he could turn his face away to make it stop. To keep from seeing it. The image followed him no matter where he looked, though; the sight of Thomas young and frightened, running in vain from a monster lurked in his mind. Parallel to the man before him, the man who had defended and protected Jimmy endlessly, it was a striking and unnerving thought. To imagine there might be a man in this world Thomas could not beat nor overcome. 

“Fuckin’ christ…” Jimmy whispered. The words tumbled from his mouth without him even registering them. 

“We run, all through the kitchen.” Thomas swept a hand gently through the air; along the path of his fingertips, the younger Thomas fled in Jimmy’s mind’s eye, “He grabs me around the waist eventually and drags me back to the living room. Trying to wrestle the book from my hands. He finally gets it from me, and drops me to the floor like I’m a sack of potatoes. and I watch him read the place I’ve bookmarked. I try and put him off, but he just goes mad.” 

Jimmy swallowed, his heart picking up in his chest. 

Thomas took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling a large plum of smoke so that they were suddenly entwined together in a mist all their own. Jimmy breathed deep, the scent of Woodbine smoke and clove so deeply Thomas that Jimmy would never be able to separate the two from him; from all that he was. 

“He says “What’s this book? Tell me what this book is!” He’s screamin’ it at the top of his lungs. Screamin it. I say ‘It’s not doin’ any harm’ but he disagrees. Claims it’s ‘destroying families and ruining innocence… and It sets me off. Cause this man, he’s made my life hell. He’d drink every night and beat my sister. Beat me. Scare us all till we were too afraid to go against him. Not a life at all, more like a half life if even that.” Thomas added. Jimmy shook his head sadly. 

“So I dress him down. Cause I’m mental. And he says to me “You think your sins are so forgivable? When you’re takin’ it up the ass?” Calls me a lavender chit.” Thomas gave a little chuckle, as if any of this were funny.

Jimmy imagined his own grandfather and father, long since dead, saying the same thing to Jimmy. Beating him and screaming at him, calling him a ‘lavender chit’. 

Jimmy would have broken like a twig beneath them. Howled and cowered upon the floor. He wouldn’t have been able to get up or defend himself. How was it that Thomas could? Did he even realize how strong he was in the face of opposition? 

“You’re so brave.” Jimmy whispered. Thomas just shook his head. 

“I’d never slept with a man… and I told him that I hadn’t. And he said that love didn’t exist, that he didn’t love my mother. that real men didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves… I loved my mother. My mother was beautiful and sweet, and smart… and a great cook… and if I were a man like any other, I’d have loved her. And why not? When she deserved love.” Thomas continued on. Jimmy thought of his own mother and how beautiful she’d been. How lovely. 

He thought of how she’d let him try on dresses as she made them, and taught him to play piano. Of how she’d saved him every single time from his grandfather, and openly called him an ‘old goat’ to his menacing shriveled face. How she’d cut her hair short and styled Jimmy’s, even though he was only ten and hardly looking to court. How she’d taken him for walks on the beach near their home in Brighton and had bought him a penny lick just because. How she’d laughed and praised him as he chased seagulls and collected her shells. How she’d kissed him before tucking him into bed, and allowed him to suck on the knuckle of his thumb even though his father had forbade him to keep up the bad habit and demanded his mother do the same. She’d said ‘of course dear’ to his face, then turned around and happily let Jimmy chew on his finger if it gave him peace of mind during a thunderstorm or bad dream. 

He completely understood how Thomas felt. 

“So I start saying “She’ll find out” cause I know she will. She’ll find out he doesn’t love her, what kind of a man he is, how dark and cold his heart is… “She’ll find out.. she’ll find out”. He grabs me, and he takes me to the ground.” And at this Thomas dove his finger down as if mimicking something sinking to the bottom of the ocean. When he touched the floor of Jimmy’s room he patted it fondly. Jimmy touched his throat, massaging it in the vain prayer it would unclench. 

“God.” Jimmy whimpered. 

He imagined Thomas pinned beneath some horrific force, having the ever loving hell beat out of him, and suddenly his mind flashed to the day of the Thirsk fair. Of how Thomas had taken punch after punch and still kept standing. Now Jimmy knew why: Thomas had been hit before. 

“Starts screamin’ again. “You think you’re perfect? You think you’re better than me?” Beats me till my ears ring. Till blood comes out my nose and mouth. Till my teeth start bendin’ in my skull.” Thomas shrugged, so at ease with his own destruction. Jimmy shuddered. 

“I just keep screamin, till I can’t talk anymore around the blood. “She’ll find out”. Cause I believe it with all my heart. And I want all the world to know.” Thomas’ smile grew a little dark at this, his eyes glazing over as he looked right past Jimmy and into his own shattered memories, “ He just keeps beating me, just keeps screaming at me… but he’s forgotten there are three other people in the house.. and they’re all up and watching. My brother, my sister. My mother. And they’re crying. Crying… and he … he sees their faces. how horrified they are. Horrified. At what he’s doin’ to me. And it disturbs him cause maybe he knows… that she just found out.” 

Thomas sighed.   
Jimmy swallowed, still massaging his throat. It was sore beneath his fingers. His eyes were beginning to burn. 

“He grabs me off the floor, and says “Get out”. Grabs me by the neck, pins my arm behind me, drags me down the stairs.” Thomas sighed haggardly, patting the floor of Jimmy’s room again. Jimmy tried to swallow again and found he couldn’t past the enormous lump in his throat, “My mother tears after him, tries to stop him, begging him not to do this. He throws me out into the street.” 

Thomas paused, his smile dropping completely. He would not look at Jimmy now, which Jimmy considered a small blessing as he blinked back wetness from his eyes. 

“Throws the manuscript of _Maurice_ at me. Says “Get out of here, and don’t let me ever catch sight of your face again. Get out or I’ll call the police." calls me trash… and slams the door in my face. And that was that.” 

“… It was December.” Thomas added after the tiniest pause. It was a reflective comment, as if the detail wasn’t significant, “I didn’t have on shoes or a coat.” 

Jimmy looked away, his eyes burning painfully.   
He felt raw and exposed, as if he were the one who had just admitted a horrific childhood trauma instead of Thomas. He rubbed at his eyes, and was horrified to find them wet. Unwilling to let Thomas see him cry, Jimmy kept his face turned away as he spoke… but there would be no denying the graveling crackle in his voice. The bleat in his tone. 

“My grandfather hated me.” Jimmy admitted. Thomas said nothing, the role of avid listener and weary storyteller swapped between them, “Said he knew what kind of man I was… told me da… me da said ‘no’, they had a huge fallin’ out. Fought over it for the rest of their lives. He cut me out of the will an’ everythin’… said he knew.” 

But it wasn’t fair damnit, because Jimmy had been seven and hardly any kind of man at all, normal or otherwise. What had been so wrong in putting on a pretty dress? In making his cousins laugh and his mother smile? Artists put paint on a canvas, why couldn’t Jimmy put makeup on his face? Why did every one of his actions have to fall into the strict category of ‘man’ lest he suffer utter humiliation and scorn? Why did he have to live his life in a box, following a line… scared of a dead man and the scorn he still might bring down on his head? 

“I was-“ Jimmy stopped, bitterly hating himself in that moment for the wetness on his cheeks, even if Thomas couldn’t see. 

Thomas could be strong; why couldn’t he? 

“I was seven.” Jimmy whimpered. “I weren’t that kind of man. I weren’t. I were seven.” 

_Liar_. An ugly voice in Jimmy’s head echoed. _You’re not seven anymore. What’s your excuse now?_

“I was so scared of my grandfather.” Jimmy admitted. “Guess you think that makes me a coward- the way your own father pushed you around. That’s all I am, Thomas. I’m a bloomin’ coward- ‘M weak and a coward and-“ 

But there was a hand on his shoulder, strong and warm, turning him around so that the pair of them were facing once more and Thomas could see the tracks of wetness upon his flushed face. There was no condemnation in his face, no scorn nor humiliation for Jimmy’s moment of weakness. Instead there was nothing but compassion, understanding, and love. 

In that moment, Jimmy desperately needed all three, and clung to each of them. Clung like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood; clung to the idea that there was yet one person left on earth who loved him more than anything else in the world. Despite how Thomas might try to hide it with Daisy, with ‘propriety’… in this moment, hiding in Jimmy’s room and sucking down Branson’s whiskey, Thomas loved him. 

Thomas lifted his gloved hand up, and with his eyes locked on Jimmy’s swollen ones the entire time unbuttoned the two clasps that kept the glove on. Ever holding Jimmy’s gaze, Thomas tugged at the finger hole of his glove and slowly slipped off. 

Jimmy sucked in a gasp, amazed and horrified at the wound finally revealed before his eyes. 

When Alfred and Jimmy had been the footmen of the house, they’d whispered at times about Thomas’ war wound and what it looked like- where he’d gotten it from. 

_“Bet he grabbed a bayonet”_ Alfred had muttered one night, _“He’s a crazy bastard like that.”_

But this was clearly a bullet wound, and Jimmy reached out fascinated to touch it. To see the gaping wound just to the right of the center of Thomas’ palm. Suddenly it became obvious why Thomas’ pinky and ring finger would not bend when he clutched at a teacup or a pen. They were one hot night away from being gone themselves; had the bullet been any higher it would have taken them both… probably his middle finger too. 

Jimmy was transfixed by the wound, by the scar, by the fact that Thomas had revealed it to him and kept his gaze the entire time. He couldn’t have been more nude before Jimmy if he’d shucked off the his trousers and pants. 

Jimmy’s cheeks burned at the idea of Thomas without his trousers and pants. He wondered if Thomas’ legs were as carved as his lips and jaw- if they were sculpted like marble from running up and down stairs all his life. 

Thomas took his spare hand and sought his silver lighter up, reaching to flick it open and perch it between the ring and middle finger of his wounded hand. He kept his wounded hand held aloft, his eyes ever on Jimmy’s face, so full of love and understanding. 

“… I held this hand up in the Somme.” Thomas whispered. “Just like I’m doin’ now, Jimmy. I took the bullet on purpose. I wanted out… I wouldn’t have done it if I weren’t a coward meself. You held out. You didn’t take a bullet just to get out of the war. So don’t call yourself a coward.” 

Thomas dropped his wounded hand, letting his silver lighter close as he slid his glove back on and buttoned it up again. Raising both hands, Thomas used his knuckles to wipe the wetness from Jimmy’s flushed cheeks. 

“… You’re not a coward, Jimmy Kent.” Thomas murmured. 

Suddenly Jimmy felt empowered, like a new path had opened before him where only a moment ago there had been a briar patch and a brick wall. He suddenly saw a goal, a way forward, a vision of a future he might hold if only he were brave enough to save it. 

And so he asked what he’d been longing to ask Thomas since the day of the Thirsk fair, fully aware of how foolish he might sound and wholly accepting his fate for it. 

“What sort of man am I?” Jimmy whispered. 

Thomas titled his head, curious; his knuckles were still upon Jimmy’s drying cheeks, “Don’t you know?” 

“Sometimes I think I do but…” Jimmy paused, his voice hitching as Thomas’ thumbs brushed against his cheeks, The pads of his fingers were rough but not unpleasant. They made his skin tingle. “I think you know better.” 

“Jimmy, I don’t hold the key to who you are.” Thomas assured him, “I don’t make or break you. I’m drawn to you. I…” Thomas seemed slightly embarrassed to admit it, “I understand you. But that’s all.” 

Jimmy shook his head. Even now, how could Thomas not know his worth in Jimmy’s eyes. 

“You’re the mirror to me soul.” Jimmy whispered, for surely Thomas knew that. 

Thomas blanched, his hands slowly dropping from Jimmy’s face. But Jimmy felt cold without them there, felt fragile and thin- he grabbed Thomas’ wrists, both gloved and ungloved, urging Thomas to keep touching his face. Thomas wouldn’t do it, instead settling for taking Jimmy’s shoulders in his hands. 

Yet after a second of hesitant pause, Thomas drew his hands to Jimmy’s neck, fingers sliding along the column of Jimmy’s throat until his cheeks were in Thomas’ hands again. Jimmy trembled, warmed and strengthened. Bolded. Made whole and firm. 

He could have spent a lifetime underneath Thomas’ hands, and still didn’t know what it all meant. 

Save that it meant he was safe. 

“Who am I?” Jimmy asked, and this time he could feel his voice vibrate against the skin of Thomas’ cupping hands. 

Thomas was the one transfixed now. As Jimmy was to his bullet wound, so Thomas was to Jimmy’s voice. Each brought pain to the other. 

“You are wonderful.” Thomas said, and there was such surety in his voice, such strength, that Jimmy shuddered again under the golden weight of it all, “You are utterly wonderful. You are confusing, and irritating, and make me want to put my fist through a pane of glass sometimes… and you’re wonderful. For all those reasons, you’re wonderful.” 

Jimmy felt like he were laying in a lake of warm wine, as if the spirits had soaked through his skin, clothes, and hair, and invigorated his blood. Made it pump hotter and faster, made him more alive than he’d been in ages. There wasn’t enough gin in London to make him feel this way. No jazz tune could come close to the strength of Thomas Barrow. 

Thomas Barrow… what a name. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Jimmy whispered.   
Thomas gasped, the tiniest hitch of a breath. 

His beautiful gray eyes lit up, his red lips parting for just a fraction of a second as if he meant to say something more. 

And quite suddenly Jimmy realized what an absurd and irrational thing he’d said, and how cruel it would be for Thomas to hear… Thomas, who loved Jimmy no matter what he said about Jimmy. No one deserved to be strung along. 

Jimmy looked away, suddenly incredibly embarrassed for the entire conversation that they had shared. The secrets, the tears, the touches- it was like a sensory over load to Jimmy and he couldn’t handle it anymore. 

Thomas’ hands slid from his cheeks, and he felt cold again. 

“Jimmy…” Thomas whispered his name like a prayer. But Jimmy’s god was dead. 

“I don’t know why I said that.” Jimmy mumbled. “I’m sorry I did. I need to go to bed now.” 

“O’course.” 

And just like that, the moment was over. 

The floorboards creaked, Jimmy grew cold, and Thomas rose up taking his photographs with him so that Jimmy was left alone clutching a half-drunk mug of whiskey and his sole family photo. He heard the floorboards creak four times, and just as the fifth one touched the air, Jimmy found he could not stand it anymore. Could not so easily let this conversation slip through his fingers when he’d needed it so much these past days… weeks… 

Months. 

“Thank you.” Jimmy bit out, looking around. Thomas was at the door, handle squeezed and ready to leave. He was not looking at Jimmy, but the stiffness in his shoulders and back showed Jimmy that he was listening intently. “Thank you for telling me, for showing me, all these things.” 

“You’re welcome.” Thomas replied, and though he was stiff there was sincerity in his voice. 

He squeezed the handle of Jimmy’s door, opened it wide, and still remained just behind the threshold. 

He turned and looked at Jimmy, his gray-green eyes dancing all over Jimmy as he sat hunched over on the floor with his half-drunk whiskey. Like he were some kind of golden idol worth worshiping instead of a miserable drunk who couldn’t fill out jazz lyrics or say what he meant to the one man he meant it to. 

Thomas smiled, amazed.   
Jimmy couldn’t understand it. 

“… For what it’s worth, no one has ever called me beautiful before.” Thomas murmured. Jimmy’s heart leapt a little in reference to his blaze comment, “And… I can’t tell you all that it means to me. To hear someone say it. Like it’s true.” 

“… It is true.” Jimmy whispered back. “… Yer the most beautiful thing in my world.” 

Thomas flushed.   
“I mean- I mean _the_ world.” Jimmy corrected himself at once, cursing inwardly at his slip of the tongue. 

Thomas’ smile still didn’t drop. 

“… O’course, Jimmy,” Thomas said, ever excusing of his behavior, “Goodnight.”   
Thomas closed the door after him, leaving Jimmy alone with his bitter thoughts and half-drunk whiskey. 

 

“… Goodnight, beautiful.” Jimmy mumbled, though Thomas was no longer around to hear him. 

He liked to imagine his words chased Thomas down the hall.  
They certainly chased Jimmy into his sleep. 

~*~

The following day, Thomas found himself watching Jimmy and wondering. 

He didn’t know what was more astounding to him… the idea that Jimmy thought he was the mirror to his soul, or that Jimmy had believed asking Thomas for help was the key to his identity. If only Thomas had had more time, more courage, he might have told Jimmy a thousand more things than the meagre consolation he provided the night before. Jimmy was wonderful, confusing, irritating and a pain in the ass… but he was also the sun and moon of Thomas’ world. He was the trumpet to every jazz tune, and the ice to every gin. He was Thomas’ weakness, strength, hope, and misery… and no day was complete for Thomas until Thomas had talked to Jimmy about it. 

But Thomas couldn’t say these things because he was engaged to Daisy and Jimmy could never give him what he wanted. All Thomas could do was be grateful for Jimmy’s continued existence and content himself with Jimmy’s presence. So he did. 

They sat together at the servant’s table on a mild afternoon; Jimmy worked on hemming one of Branson’s more abused shirts and Thomas finished up a wine inventory for Carson. Had Thomas been sitting with Daisy, she no doubt would have nagged his ear off prattling with some tale until she turned blue in the face. Jimmy, however, didn’t need to talk every second of the day, and so they sat in companionable silence that was only broken by Jimmy murmuring _“is this stitch right?”_ and Thomas looking at it to reply _“it’s perfect.”_

What he wanted to say was _“You’re perfect.”_ but he couldn’t do that; he simply smiled instead. 

The back door rang, and for a moment Thomas considered rising up to get it until he saw Anna walking past with one of Lady Mary’s riding jacket’s over her arm; she was making a bee line for the door. Thomas stayed put, unwilling to leave Jimmy’s side as Jimmy hummed a tune under his breath. When Daisy hummed, it could be mildly pleasant but most of the time he had no opinion either way. It was still her just trying to fill the silence. When Jimmy hummed…. it was like gold filling Thomas’ veins. 

It didn’t help that Jimmy was humming Thomas’ Berceuse. Every so often he’d look Thomas’ way and smile. 

Anna was coming back, her heels clicking on the stone. She appeared in the doorway with a most peculiar look upon her face. 

“Thomas, there’s a woman here to see you.” Anna said, though she didn’t sound too sure of their unsuspected visitor. Thomas set his pen down, confused. He wasn’t expecting anyone; who could it be? 

“Who is it?” Thomas asked. “A tradeswoman?” 

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Anna replied, gesturing in confusion, “She says she’s your sister.” 

Thomas’ mouth fell open. 

For one tiny moment he didn’t quite know what to do, what to say; dare he believe it to be true? Dare he think that just outside the back area Margret was waiting for him? But Jimmy had no such hesitations; if anything he seemed irate that Thomas hadn’t made a move. 

“Go!” Jimmy cried out, setting down Branson’s shirt at once; his beautiful face had broken into a maniacal grin, “Bloody hell, what are you waiting for?! Go!” 

It was as if Jimmy’s delight made it true, and Thomas’ heart leapt for joy into his throat as he all but wrenched from his seat to propel himself across the room. 

“What’s going on?” Anna demanded agog as both Thomas and Jimmy ran past her their tasks utterly forgotten. 

Thomas couldn’t run fast enough, couldn’t seem to gain proper ground despite the fact it was only one short hallway to the back door and surely it wasn’t even that long. It felt like a kilometer to him as he dashed madly across the stone and wrenched the back door open with both hands. 

Mild sunlight streamed down into the back courtyard from beneath a hazy overcast sky, and despite Thomas looking feverishly about as if his mystery visitor might be hidden, he didn’t have look far. There at the back table, where Thomas had sat smoking and winding clocks for the past fifteen years was a young woman about his age with black hair bound atop her head and a long pale neck like a swan. She wore a light blue peacoat and cloche over a navy dress, and as she turned at the sound of the back door banging open she wore a look of hope upon her face. Her eyes were almond shaped and lightest blue- practically gray in the pale afternoon light. Her cheekbones cast slightest shadows upon her face; her nose was long and straight. 

He had not seen her in fifteen years, but she was not a stranger.   
She could never be a stranger.   
She was his twin. 

“Oh Thomas-“ Margret clapped a hand to her slender neck as if she expected her heart to burst forth from her throat. She stumbled around the table, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears as she threw her arms open wide- wide and loving with no room for fear or doubt. He tripped out the door, nearly falling to the ground as he staggered and threw his arms around her. Suddenly there she was, in his arms, as if she’d never left- as if they’d never parted- as if he hadn’t nearly died in the streets, been homeless, turned nasty and jaded, and robbed of his happiness. As if the past fifteen years were a mere blip of a shadow, a foolish picture show he’d taken a fancy to watching and hadn’t had to live out. 

“Margret-“ He choked her name into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, burying his face in her beautiful black hair and the soft fabric of her peacoat, “I thought I’d never see you again.” 

He could not help himself. He wept. 

He’d given up on Margret, had thought for many years that their paths would simply never cross again. That she’d be nothing more than a vivid and beautiful ghost, standing tall and clear above an outline of other ghosts. He’d forgotten the smell of her flesh- a light lilac that seemed to be imbedded in the soap she used. He’d forgotten the grip of her touch- how strong she was though she was hardly a farmer or a soldier. She held him as tight as any war hero returning from abroad, clinging to him with all the ferocity her love possessed. He took shelter in her refuge, in her affection. 

How he had needed that affection. 

How he’d needed someone to care about him, to touch him, to love him; to understand his sharp edge and not hold it against him… to not constantly assume the worst about him. To imagine that once in a blue moon, he might actually be the hero instead of the villain. To give thanks for his presence instead of shunning him. 

He wept into her neck, and in that moment thanked a god he wasn’t sure even existed or cared for him. 

_Thank you_. Thomas thought as his tears soaked the lapel of his twin sister’s coat, _Thank you for my deliverance_. 

“Can it really be you?” Margret was asking, “Is it really possible?” 

She could feel him shaking, and her grip tightened impossibly harder upon his back as she clutched the back of his head and the blades of his shoulders. She could keep every demon away; save him from every vengeful spirit. “Thomas… Thomas…” she said his name over and over again, whispered it into the shell of his ear as if she were invoking this meeting through prayer. 

She was trying to pull him up, trying to look at his face even as he wept before her- Thomas let go with terrible reluctance, his face wet as Margret finally pulled him back to look him in the eye. She touched him in that moment; touched his face, hair, lips, and eyelids- as if she were blind and unable to see him save through her fingertips. Her fingers danced upon the heavy circles underneath her eyes. Her lips parted just so as her chin quivered with emotion. 

“Margret…” Thomas whispered her name. His fingers clutched her waist tighter; he slipped a hand up to keep her cheek- a cheek so familiar it could have been his own. His hand splayed out upon her skin, soaking in its warmth. Margret blinked, and two tears slipped from the corner of her left eye. They were hot beneath his hand, and he brushed them away with the pad of his thumb. 

“Thomas… What on earth is going on?” Margret demanded, suddenly looking pained, “Tell me, what are you doing? Are you really getting married? Have you really fallen in love with a woman?” 

But Thomas could not lie to his own sister, and so instead he crumpled to lay his head back upon her shoulder. 

“Forgive me, Margie-“ Thomas whispered into her neck; only she could absolve him of this sin. After all, he’d committed it for her. “There was no other way.” 

And it broke him with how bitter the facts were. 

“Oh Thomas…” Margret cupped the back of his head again, and it seemed that just as before in their childhood she could sense his very thoughts. Perhaps already knew the extent of his treachery and vice. “ Thomas what are you doing?” 

Thomas did not look up, shaking his head back and forth while still pressed to Margret’s shoulder. Margret’s fingers were threaded through his hair, anchoring him to reality. 

“Thomas, does she know?” 

Margret was trying to pull his head back up again, determined to make him look her in the eye; Thomas went willingly with her touch though he could not help but long for her shoulder. Eye to eye with his sister, he nodded. Margret had grown pale, fraught with worry. 

“Then how can she agree to marry you?” Margret demanded, “Surely she knows you can’t love her.” 

“I-“ Thomas had no idea what to say to her, utterly blank with how best to convey his woe, “I think I can-“ 

“Thomas-“ In one word Margret broke through his barrier as if it were made of flimsy false wood. Thomas crumpled again, but this time Margret would not let his face drop. 

Now it was Thomas’ turn to weep openly before his sister. “Margret, I had to try!” Thomas begged her to understand, “I had to do it, Margret, I had to pretend- it was the only way back to you. Back to you- don’t you see Margie?” Thomas cupped her face in both of his hands, pressing their foreheads together as they’d so often done in childhood during moments of strife and terror. 

They’d hidden beneath the kitchen table one time, pressed just as they were now, waiting for their father to stop ranting and raving. 

“Don’t you see…” Thomas whispered, fingers trailing through Margret’s black braids. “You are worth my pain.” 

“Oh Thomas-“ His words seemed to break her spirit, and more tears slipped free as her voice warbled in the air, “Oh Thomas, why have you done this to yourself?” she stroked his face with her knuckles,her hand curled in. 

“I’m in hell.” Thomas bleated, a pathetic child in her arms as he laid his head upon her shoulder once more, “I’m in hell, Margie.” 

But Margret just turned her face into his hair, and as she murmured softly into his ear all Thomas’ troubles seemed to slowly melt away. 

“I’m here…” Margret whispered in his ear.   
He closed his eyes, and for a moment simply allowed his world to revolve around her.   
Around her kindness and love. 

“I’m here.” She whispered, “And now, we shall never be parted.” 

He exhaled softly, his breath warming the fabric of her coat with the slightest dew.   
He tried to imagine such a paradise. A place where Margret might never leave him, might always be there to keep him company and love him. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes at the thought. 

“Margret.” He did not speak the name so much as he mouthed it. The prettiest name in the world (besides Jimmy). 

But suddenly Margret was pulling at him; something seemed to have caught her attention and she was silently bidding him to straighten back up. He did so at once; rubbing furiously at his face lest someone else see his misery and joy. He looked over his shoulder, unsure of who he’d find- 

But it was only Jimmy- lovely, perfect Jimmy- standing in the doorstep and looking quite unsure of what to do next. He clutched a hand to his chest, eyes wide as he observed Thomas and Margret holding each other by the elbows and waists. 

Margret looked to Thomas, unsure of what to do or say. She adjusted her peacoat a little better around her throat as Thomas smoothed back his hair. 

Jimmy was flushed, somehow as emotionally overcome with the reunion was Thomas as himself. Jimmy tilted his head, hesitantly; Thomas nodded in clear confirmation. 

Jimmy exhaled, eyes widening even further as he fully took Margret in. He stepped off the stoop, closing the back door behind him with a soft click. Now there was only silence broken by the slightest flittering of birds in the air. 

“Margie this is-“ Thomas gestured helplessly at Jimmy as he approached, unsure of how to sum Jimmy up or what to even say. He supposed only one explanation could do: “This is Jimmy Kent.” 

Margret just smiled her simple little smile and extended her hand for Jimmy to shake. Jimmy did so, though it was a slow, dumb thing. He seemed staggered by her mere presence. 

“Margret Baxter.” Margret introduced herself, and Thomas heart squeezed at the concept that she’d been married and he’d not been able to see it. He imagined how beautiful she might have looked in her wedding dress, with her veil and bouquet. 

Thomas wondered what swagger Jimmy might impress upon his sister and was therefore surprised when Jimmy simply mumbled, “I feel like I’ve waited a lifetime to meet you.” 

Margret smiled as they dropped hands, nodding as if she’d heard a double meaning in Jimmy’s words though Thomas could see none. 

“… It’s taken me a life time to get here.” Margret admitted. 

A lifetime. A truly horrible lifetime. Thomas had to look away, his face screwing up against suppressed emotion as he pressed a hand hard to his mouth to make sure no sound escaped. How could he ever explain to Margret all that had occurred, all that he had done? How could he ever tell her about the sins of his past? About O’Brien, William, Alfred, Jimmy, and Phyllis-? 

If Margret knew about Phyllis, she’d be horrified. How could Thomas have ever thought to manipulate her best friend? Her closest companion? He ought to tell Phyllis that Margret was here; ought to march inside and find Phyllis so that they might be reunited too. But he was selfish and wanted this time alone with his sister and Jimmy. 

“I’m the reason Thomas had to leave early the other day-“ Jimmy blurted out, with all the construed emotion of a rabid sinner confessing at last to a priest. Margret was slightly surprised as Jimmy clasped his hands before her, twisting at his fingers as he began to chew on his lip. Thomas huffed, rolling his eyes skyward. 

“Let’s not rake over that now-“ Thomas mumbled, but Jimmy just kept pushing forward. 

“No, I am.” Jimmy urged. Thomas watched with mild amusement as Margret’s brow began to crinkle with confusion at Jimmy’s emotional panic, “I’m sorry; it was me. I- I was scared about Thomas… being alone with his fiancé…? If that makes sense?” 

Margret blinked, “I suppose it might, to the right ear.”   
Thomas raised an eyebrow. He wondered whose ear Margret was talking about. 

“I only want you to understand that I-“ Jimmy was tripping and stumbling over every word he spoke, his phrases so jumbled that it would be difficult to discern them as rooted in the English language, “That I- that is to say- what I’m trying to- I only mean that- I care about- in a healthy way- I care about your brother.” 

Jimmy finished in a rush, “More than jazz.” 

Thomas’ head spun at the mere concept that Jimmy might care about him more than Jazz. Margret blinked, utterly lost. 

Jimmy flushed, suddenly realizing what he’d said, and raked a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair; he was sweating bullets as if he were being interrogated by the police. 

“I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry. I’ll go make tea.” Jimmy decided, and turned on the spot to hassle back through the exit door so that Thomas and Margret were left alone in the courtyard again. 

Margret turned and looked at Thomas, lost but mildly amused, “What a peculiar person.” 

“He’s a pip.” Thomas muttered, though that hardly summed up what Jimmy Kent was. 

“I imagine he must make things a little complicated with your fake-fiancé.” Margret said, and though dry humor laced her voice, there was nothing funny at all about this situation. At a time like this, he might have turned to Margret’s headshot for comfort. Now, all he had to do was turn to her arms. He found her hand upon the crook of his elbow, holding him to her side as she reached up to stroke back a lock of black hair which had fallen into his face. 

“I had no choice, Margret.” Thomas said, and though he was staunch in his opinion he knew that Margret would be able to chip away at it in time. Margret was the sculptor to the ice that packed his heart. Her mere existence warmed the ground beneath his feet and made it a little easier to stand. 

“I know.” Margret whispered consolingly, “I know. We better follow him before he sets the house on fire.” 

“You know him so well.” Thomas muttered, for though they’d only just met Margret had perfectly pegged the problem with Jimmy Kent. You couldn’t leave him alone with anything.

It felt like a peculiar dream as Thomas entered the abbey with Margret in hand. She didn’t want to let go of him, clung to his elbow as much as his hand, and her grip was slightly sweaty in his own. He felt like a child again, no older than ten and sneaking around his father’s shop in broad daylight to avoid being caught by his father during business hours. 

Thomas felt like he was hiding treasure in a cave- like he had to stash Margret somewhere safe before someone else saw her. Though he’d willingly shared her with Jimmy, he didn’t feel his generosity spreading to other members of the staff- 

And right on cue as if bidden out of his worries Mrs. Hughes came walking around the corner with a handful of linens and a checklist perched atop. She seemed slightly scandalized to find Thomas walking hand in hand with a mysterious woman, and at once gave him a disapproving look as she sized Margret up and down. 

“And who is this?” Mrs. Hughes demanded, in particularly eyeing how Margret kept a close hold on Thomas. Some women might have remained silent, might have been unsure, but Margret had always been the one to take the initial step forward. 

Between the pair of them, Margret had always been the smarter twin. Or at least the one with the mouth filter. 

“Please forgive me,” Margret began, her tone most sincere, “I don’t mean to intrude, but I haven’t seen my brother in nearly fifteen years and only found out where he was the other day- the minute I had an address, I came.” 

Mrs. Hughes blinked, unsure if she’d heard correct or what to assume: “Brother?” 

Margret let go of Thomas’ had for a fraction of a second to slip off her traveling glove and extend her hand for Mrs. Hughes to shake. “Margret Baxter… nee Barrow.” 

Mrs. Hughes eyes grew wide.   
She looked left to Thomas, then right to Margret, and finally to Margret’s out stuck hand between them. It dawned on her in stages, and even then she was shocked. 

“Oh-!” Mrs. Hughes juggled her linens with one hand, immediately shaking Margret’s so that the top linens nearly fell off their mount, “Oh my- I’m Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. How do you do Mrs. Baxter. Why don’t you use my tea room?” 

It was the best idea Thomas had ever heard, and he took her up on it at once. The merciful blessing lay in the fact that Mrs. Hughes tea room was far enough away from the kitchen that Thomas wouldn’t have to fear Daisy over hearing, and it seemed Mrs. Hughes had read his mind as Thomas opened the door to her tea room. She leaned in close as Margret passed through, murmuring, “Does Daisy know she’s here.” 

“No- not yet- I-“ Thomas shook his head, extending a hand in the prayer of silencing Mrs. Hughes before she could summon his fiancé. Mrs. Hughes just smiled, waving him down. 

“Let’s keep it that way for the moment, you need your time alone.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

Thomas sighed haggardly, wondering if the halo around Mrs. Hughes head was simply invisible to the physical realm, “Thank you.” 

~*~

She looked exactly like him.   
_Exactly_ like him. 

The revelation of seeing Margret Baxter nee Barrow in the flesh was such an astounding one that Jimmy didn’t even have room to be annoyed by Daisy’s prattling as he bid her to prepare a tea set. 

“Do you know, I was talking to the Father Dominic just the other day about having a small wedding off the estate and when I told him who my groom was, he thought I must be joking.” Daisy tittered to Mrs. Patmore; Mrs. Patmore, in the mid process of plucking a duck, did not even bother looking up from her array of dust and feathers as Daisy laid a tray out for Jimmy. 

“But I think Thomas is going to make a remarkable groom; don’t you Jimmy?” Daisy laid a plate of biscuits and jam on the tray as well. 

“Daisy-“ Mrs. Patmore huffed, “Get on with that tea set and back to our birds. Jimmy has more to worry about that your love life.” 

Jimmy didn’t know how to convey in words the shocking concept of entering Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room to find Thomas at her tea table speaking with his mirror image. So often, Jimmy had wondered what Thomas would look like if he was a woman- now it seemed he knew. Margret Barrow was beautiful, with the same facial structure and keen piercing eyes of her brother. Her black hair, spun in thick roping braids perched atop her head, gave her a motherly look that did not reflect upon her face or skin. She was youthful and lovely, her flesh the color of porcelain and her hands as dainty as the petals of a lily flower. 

But it was more than that. She was identical to Thomas in how she perched herself upon the chair; slightly leaned over as if she meant to leap off of it at a given moments notice. It was the way her foot twitched upon the floor, heeled and jiggling with the lightest sway. There was an odd anxiety to the pair of them. A determination to do something and to do it quick. For a moment as Jimmy held a meagre tea tray before them he was unsure if he should intrude at all. Despite having offering to make tea, he didn’t want to break the moment. 

Yet as Thomas looked up to spot him in the doorway, his delight only grew. Jimmy’s heart fluttered in his breast at the sight of Thomas’ smile, so genuine and true in this rare moment. Margret looked around in her chair, curious, and smiled when she saw Jimmy standing there.   
He wondered if Margret forgave him for taking her brother away. If she was simply smiling because Thomas was sitting there… or if she actually liked him. Jimmy had never cared before if people liked him or not, but he found he desperately wanted Margret to like him. To approve of him for Thomas- but that thought was absurd and so he shook it off. 

Jimmy took their smiles as a cue to lay down the tea- and he did so upon Mrs. Hughes’ little rickety table. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Jimmy mumbled, flashing them a small smile and heading back for the door. He didn’t want to intrude. Thomas had already missed out on Margret once because of him; Jimmy wouldn’t willingly add to that number. 

“Wait!” Thomas called out, and Jimmy halted at once to look over his shoulder. Thomas seemed eager still, gesturing between himself and Margret to the one lone chair left in the room- an old stool against the far wall that Jimmy could easily pull over if he wanted. 

“Stay?” Thomas asked. “Please?” 

Jimmy looked back around, checking outside the hallway for any possible intruders; Daisy was still in the kitchen probably babbling on about how much of a remarkable groom Thomas was. If they kept the door shut and their voices down, perhaps they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

He closed the door at Thomas’ insistence, and drug the one lone stool across the room to perch himself upon it at Thomas’ side. He didn’t want to sit between the siblings, didn’t want to make himself into any kind of a barrier, but Jimmy had a feeling as Margret poured tea for the three of them that the atlantic ocean would not be barrier enough for the Barrow twins. 

“Still take it the same?” Margret murmured. Thomas nodded, and seemed to be blissfully amazed as Margret put a cub of sugar and a slice of lemon in his to tea. Thomas brought it to his lips, blowing softly, and Jimmy found himself momentarily distracted by how the top of Thomas’ tea rippled at his breath. He hardly noticed Margret pouring his own tea, and merely mumbled a ‘no thank you’ when she offered sugar and lemon. He drank his own tea without blowing, and winced at how scalding hot it was. His tongue felt burned. 

“Tell me everything,” Margret urged, “And I shall do the same.” 

Thomas sat his tea down without even having taken a sip. Jimmy noted that despite preferring scalding hot bathes, Thomas didn’t like his tea hot. He wondered why that was. 

“When I left, I left for London.” Thomas began; Margret listened avidly, her eyes keen and wide, “I was on the street for a few weeks, but I eventually found work at a local house. Just hall boy affairs- nothing particularly special. I bounced around from house to house, trying to find a place I could work my way up in the ladder… but London’s not the place for a career if you don’t have the money or reputation to back it. So I left for the countryside.” 

“Yorkshire.” Margret deduced. 

“Yorkshire.” Thomas agreed, “And I found Downton Abbey.” At this he gestured around. 

“It’s beautiful, truly-“ Margret murmured, and she gave Thomas a tentative smile as he finally sipped his tea. 

“It’s a cage. A beautiful cage.” Thomas assured; Jimmy could not help but agree, nodding alongside him. “I started as junior footman, worked my way up to first footman, to valet…” Thomas paused, his voice tensing, “To under butler. Which is what I am now.” 

“Under butler.” Margret was atwitter with this, touching her breast as if suffering from chest pains. She beamed, her high cheek bones flushing with pride. Jimmy had to wonder if, when Thomas smiled, he looked just as beautiful. 

Yet as he cast Thomas a sideways glance, Jimmy could not help but think: _But Thomas always looks beautiful. Even when he’s frownin’_. 

“My brother is an under butler.” Margret repeated to herself, and there was such pride in her voice that it seemed unable to be contained. She patted her breast, drumming her fingers idly upon the collar of her blue dress. Jimmy noted just the tiniest hint of faded lace there. Thomas tried for a smile himself, but it was a small thing and hardly prideful. 

_But you ought to be proud_ , Jimmy thought with dismay, glancing again at Thomas, _You’ve worked so hard!_

“So I suppose you run the house?” Margret said again with no small hint of delight. 

“No.” Thomas said at once, huffing at the mere idea of him running Downton Abbey. Jimmy thought Thomas might make a fine butler, though, “No, that would be Mr. Carson. The butler.” 

“Oh- so you’re his assistant?” Margret asked, and when Thomas nodded she said, “I’m sure he’s very appreciative for your help and hard work.” 

At this, Thomas gave a cold humorless laugh, and muttered something ineligible into his teacup. Jimmy was almost certain he heard Thomas say _“I’d be better off dead.”_

But a world without Thomas Barrow was not a world Jimmy wanted to imagine. 

“You’re more important than you say.” Jimmy murmured. Thomas glanced at him over his tea cup. The green flecks in his eyes seemed magnified in the light of Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room. “You have more worth than you know.” 

Thomas swallowed a rather large mouthful of tea, perhaps too shocked by Jimmy’s words to deny them. Margret, however, picked up on them at once. Jimmy saw her eyes sparkle with some odd knowing that only siblings could possess, a treasure he’d never been privy to as an only child. Margret suddenly seemed enraptured by Jimmy, a grin tugging at the corners of her plump mouth (so lip her brother’s) as she raised an ebony eyebrow and inquired. 

“And who is my brother’s keeper?” She asked. Jimmy hastily took another sip of tea to keep from answering, but it was still scalding and he winced. 

“Uh… I’m just Jimmy.” Jimmy replied, flushing at the prospect of having to illuminate his relationship to Margret. In a way, Margret already seemed to know. “I’m a valet to Mr. Branson— he’s… a man of the house.” Jimmy muttered, gesturing to the ceiling over their heads, for Margret would have no idea who Mr. Branson was or why he even mattered. 

“You’re more than that.” Thomas murmured. Margret’s grin was only growing, getting more wicked by the second. 

“He’s my closest friend.” Thomas explained. Margret rubbed her thumb slowly upon the handle of her teacup, looking quite smug. “We’re in each other’s pockets- and would you stop smirking like that?” Thomas demanded, suddenly getting a tad cross. 

Margret just put down her teacup to pick up a biscuit, munching on it slowly as Jimmy grew redder and redder under her gaze. 

“And tell me, Jimmy. What’s your opinion of Thomas’ fiancé?” Margret asked, and though there was no malice in her voice, there was the oddest tinge of knowing that made Jimmy squirm on his stool. 

“She’s a right twit, and I wish she’d bugger off.” Jimmy muttered. 

Thomas expression slackened into dull resentment, and he rolled his eyes as Jimmy shrugged and bitterly sipped his tea. 

“What? she asked.” Jimmy mumbled, his words muddled by tea. 

Margret chewed on her biscuit, suddenly looking quite pleased with herself.   
When she spoke again, however, her words reflected none of her pride. 

“After you left, everything went downhill.” Margret admitted. Now it was Thomas’ turn to listen, and he did so with undivided attention. Jimmy found himself enraptured too, despite not being a part of the Barrow clan. In a way, he was living this moment vicariously through Thomas, experience the pain and the joy just as much as he. He found himself wanting to know exactly what had happened to the Barrows after Thomas had been kicked to the curb. 

Part of him wanted to say: _“Serves them right!”_   
Part of him did not. 

“Our father took on apprentice after apprentice but none of them had your spark or talent, and he kicked them all out in turn until there were none left in the village who wanted to be near him. Then the war came, Danny lied about his age and joined up just to get out of the house.” Margret sighed, suddenly burdened by the name and the memories it brought up. Thomas set his teacup down, running his hands over his face wearily. 

“Danny never fought with father like you did.” Margret admitted, “But they didn’t get on. Danny blamed him for your absence, and he blamed Danny for everything that went wrong in the shop. Said that Danny should have been the one to be his apprentice, but Danny wouldn’t do it. Danny didn’t want to be a clock master. Danny wanted to be an artist. You can imagine our father’s opinion on _that_.” Margret snorted. 

Thomas said nothing, but his expression of discontentment said it all. 

“He was put in the Somme.” Margret said. Thomas let out a hollow laugh. “He said that he was certain you’d be enlisted too. That he was going to look for you.” 

“Well he was right, I was enlisted.” Thomas interrupted bitterly, “But he was a fool if he thought he could look for anything in that chaos. If it wasn’t an inch in front of your nose, it didn’t exist.” 

“I tried to tell him that. He wouldn’t listen.” Margret paused, “Thomas, Danny is-“ 

“I know.” Thomas cut her off. Margret fell silent. 

“I was a medic. After I was wounded and sent home I worked in a hospital in Ripon for a bit… I saw his name on the registrar for the recently deceased-” Thomas admitted. Margret remained silent, watching and waiting to see what he’d say or do. “It’s fine Margret. I’ve already grieved for him.” 

Margret was relieved by this. Her smile slackened, growing more genuine than forced: “I’m glad. I was worried you didn’t know, and that I’d have to tell you. The minute I knew where you were I came but- I feared maybe I would upset you-?” 

Thomas shot a hand out and took Margret’s in his own. Too late, he seemed to realize that his offered hand was his gloved one, and Margret looked down at the leather piece confused. 

“What on earth are you wearing?”   
“You could never upset me-“ 

They both spoke at the same time; Margret smiled, warmed by his words, but gestured to Thomas’ peculiar two-fingered glove all the same. 

“War wound.” Thomas explained, “It’s what got me sent home.” 

“Oh.” Margret looked grave all of a sudden, and she fingered the softened leather with care. “Does it pain you?” 

“It’s fine-“ Thomas squeezed her hand, “Tell me more. What happened after… well…” Thomas didn’t allude to Danny’s death verbally but the implication was clear. Margret carried on. 

“When Danny died, our mother was heartbroken.” Margret said. Thomas pursed his lips; Jimmy could see the tense emotion building beneath the surface of Thomas’ calm demeanor. “She cried for months, cried so often that her heart started to weaken. She fell ill with a fever, and it nearly took her life but I nursed her back to health. It weakened her though. Permanently.” Margret coughed, before carrying on, “Then David Baxter returned from the war, and one thing lead to another-“ 

“And you got married.” Now it was Thomas’ turn to sound smug. Margret flushed, pulling her had out of his grip. She sipped her tea, cooly. 

“I know what you’re going to say.” Margret snipped, “And it’s unfounded. Completely unfounded.” 

“What am I going to say?” Thomas asked mildly, picking back up his own teacup with care though it was almost drained. Silently, Jimmy poured him a full cup, “That he’s ten years older than you and-“ 

“We have two sons-“ Margret explained, riding over Thomas completely. “Thomas, the older one. Daniel, my special boy- the queer part is that Danny is more like you, and Thomas is more like his late uncle.” Margret tilted her head, rather perturbed by this. 

Thomas just smiled, a warm affection returning to his face that Jimmy so enjoyed to see. Jimmy smiled on instinct, watching as Thomas flushed with his own sense of pride at the mention of his namesake. 

“Danny has a hard time.” Margret admitted; Thomas smile vanished at once to be replaced by open and obvious concern, “He’s often picked on just for being different at school, and our father is never easy on him.” 

“How is he different?” Thomas demanded, a sharpness returning to his voice at the mention of one of his nephews being bullied.

“He’s like you.” Margret declared, and her voice turned soft at the edges with dire meaning. Thomas just rolled his eyes at first, sipping on his cooling cup of tea, but then he seemed to realize another implication behind Margret’s words and paused mid sip to look at his sister. She was staring at him, unmoved. “He’s just like you, Thomas.” 

Thomas’ eyes narrowed as he set his teacup down. Jimmy wondered what Margret meant, if she meant what Jimmy thought she meant, and if you could tell in a child- if that was even possible. But then he recalled his father and grandfather fighting like mad in the family study, screaming about how Jimmy was different. 

_“He’s a lavender!”_ his grandfather had roared. 

_“He’s seven!”_ Jimmy’s father had shouted back. 

And suddenly Jimmy went pale. 

“He’s different, he’s six,” “He’s a lavender, he’s seven”… what was the difference between the two conversations save that they weren’t about the same boy? 

“But that’s neither here nor there, we’ll discuss it later.” Margret urged, “There’s something else you need to know, and truly it’s part of the reason why I came here today.” Margret set down her teacup to put her hands in her lap. She was embittered by her news, and though Jimmy and Thomas were yet to hear it, Jimmy already knew it was going to be bad. 

“Our mother is dying.” Margret admitted. 

Thomas’ jaw moved in a weird motion, as if he were grinding his teeth together despite not making a sound. He looked away from Margret and Jimmy, staring instead at the threadbare floral rug by their feet. You could barely tell what the colors were anymore. 

“The other day, when you were taken back from us so suddenly, it weakened her.” Margret said, and Jimmy was overcome with horrible shame; he too had to look away, his cheeks flushing hot with guilt. 

“Oh god what have I done.” Jimmy mumbled under his breathe; it pained him to admit he was on the verge of tears, that he was so weak— but then there was a hand upon his own underneath the table. Though he could not bear to turn and look at Thomas, Jimmy knew Thomas was staring at him now instead of the rug. 

“Nothing.” Thomas assured him, and there was fierce love in his voice, “You’ve done nothing, Jimmy. This isn’t your fault.” 

“But it is, innit?” Jimmy mumbled. Thomas squeezed his hand. “I was selfish and now yer mum’s dyin’.” 

“Jimmy, it has nothing to do with you, not really.” Margret urged, but Jimmy wouldn’t be soothed, “Our mother has been in poor health for years now. Almost a decade. She’s been in such dire straights, underneath such stress, it was only a matter of time before her body gave out-“ 

Jimmy let out a quivering breath, desperately trying to control his raging emotions. 

“What it boils down to is that she’s in a frail state, weak and desperate to see you. She’s afraid heaven may take her before she gets the chance.” Margret admitted, “You have to come home, Thomas. You have to see her. As soon as possible.” 

“I will.” Thomas agreed without hesitation. 

“She wanted me to bring her a picture of you.” Margret said, “Do you have one?” 

“I- no, I don’t.” Thomas admitted bitterly, “I can get one made though-“ 

But pictures took forever to get made, and they didn’t have that kind of time. Thomas needed to leave, immediately; Jimmy knew this from experience. His own mother had been taken from him so swiftly it had seemed like a cruel joke. One walk through the heather and everyone who loved Jimmy was gone. Thomas would never forgive himself if his mother died while he was waiting on a photo- they needed to leave tonight. 

“Sod that!” Jimmy declared, looking back around. Thomas was startled, Margret confused. “We go as soon as possible. We can’t afford to wait on a picture. We need to leave tonight-!” 

“Jimmy- wait-“ Thomas threw up a hand, stopping Jimmy mid rant with cool determination as Jimmy spluttered and drew silent. “We? When did this become a ‘we’ adventure?” 

“Well- I thought-“ Jimmy stuttered, but he couldn’t finish the sentence aloud for some reason. The shame was just too great. 

_I thought you’d want me there with you_. 

But it seemed Thomas didn’t, and the realization made Jimmy’s blood run cold as Thomas continued to stare and Margret’s gaze grew narrow. He realized just how pushy he was, how selfish, to intrude upon such a personal conversation and moment as if he had any right to be there at all. 

He jerked up out of his chair as if burned, backing away at once with a flustered and irritated air. 

“Course it’s not a we,” Jimmy huffed, reaching for the door handle, “It’s not me affair, I know that well enough, it was foolish of me to speak out. I’ll take me leave now, this is a private conversation. Mrs. Baxter-“ Jimmy added, tipping his head to Margret in common curtesy. 

He stepped outside at once, closing the door swiftly (but quietly) behind him.   
Through the thin wood, he heard sudden voices of dismay. 

_“What on earth was that about?”_ Margret demanded. 

_“He’s confused.”_

_“But aren’t you two-?”_

_“No. And we never will be.”_ Thomas said it with such cold finality that Jimmy felt a dead weight sink into his stomach. It was like he’d swallowed an anvil and he suddenly wanted to cry, _“The sooner all of it’s settle the better.”_

_“But he seemed so-“_

_“He’ll figure it out. He’s very charismatic. He could have any girl that he wanted, and he will.”_

But Thomas was wrong. 

That night at dinner, Jimmy sat between Baxter and Anna, across the table from Thomas and barely touching his plate of kidney pie and mutton stew. Between each tiny bite, Jimmy looked up and down the table of servants and wondered at the women he saw. There were maids whose names he did not know and did not care about. They were girlish, fickle things with silly opinions and boring personalities. All they wanted to do was complain or gossip, they never had anything interesting to say, not truly, and none of them were eager to leave Downton. They liked being servants, they wanted to keep to country. 

Jimmy would have none of that. 

Then there was Anna, Baxter, Mrs. Hughes, Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, and of course the scullery maids. Anna was married, and far too holy for Jimmy’s tastes. Baxter was too old, too motherly, and too irritating as far as he was concerned. It was like she was pecking at him half the time. Mrs. Hughes was ancient, and even if she was Jimmy’s age Jimmy had a feeling Mr. Carson would cleave his head off with an axe if he dared to look at her twice. Daisy was a bitch, and engaged to Thomas. Mrs. Patmore was once again, off the menu, and the scullery maids were just as boring and infantile as the house maids. 

So maybe Jimmy should go to the pub, but what would await him there? There was no difference with the pubs in London, Yorkshire, Wales, or what have you. They all featured the same kind of girls- loose, and ready for a good time… but not Jimmy’s kind of good time. Sex was vacant, boring, cold- and Jimmy knew it shouldn’t be any of these things. Jimmy tried to imagine sex with someone who would bring him to life, not suffocate him with their icy touch… someone who would invoke passion in him, not rob him of it. 

And then, as Jimmy dipped his spoon into his mutton stew for the fourth time, he paused and considered the man sitting across the table from him. 

Thomas was not girlish, fickle, silly, or boring. When Thomas complained, it made Jimmy laugh. When Thomas gossiped, Jimmy was truly interested. He always had something intriguing to say, some wild fashionable story to tell, but the true golden bond between them was that their silences weren’t ugly. They could sit side by side and simply be content because… because… 

Thomas looked up from his kidney pie, caught Jimmy’s eyes, and smiled. 

_Oh my god_. Jimmy thought in terror. _Oh my god_. 

His hands began to tingle, his chest constricting and his vision narrowing as all the weight and terror of his youth suddenly came back to crush him down in adulthood. He couldn’t run away with a barmaid, he couldn’t hide in a gin bottle, he couldn’t pretend in London or ignore in Downton. He couldn’t. 

Thomas was smiling at him, so sweetly and earnestly, so beautifully… so truly…   
And Jimmy knew. 

_Ting a ling a ling!_

A bell rang, and Jimmy wouldn’t have given half a damn about it if Mrs. Hughes hadn’t declared: “That’s Mr. Branson, you better go up Mr. Kent.” 

Should he?   
Ah yes, he probably should. 

Jimmy stumbled back from the table and out of his chair, his legs wobbly and his knees weak. He felt like Bates walking without his cane, and hardly realized that he was leaving the servant’s hall as he ascended the stairs at a snail’s crawl and sought out Branson’s guest room. 

His grandfather had been right, his grandfather had known. He’d been so dead on the money it wasn’t even funny and Jimmy trembled violently as he slowly rounded the corner of the gallery floor to sway too and fro to Mr. Branson’s room. It felt like his dream, when everything had been on fire and the hallway just continued to stretch. He might have walked a kilometer before he reached the end where the proper day lay, and as Jimmy reached out for the doorknob, his saw his hand was dripping in sweat. He could barely grasp and pull the knob. 

But he did so, somehow, and fumbled into the room. 

Branson was still in his dressing gown, just as Jimmy had left him before going down to supper- but he had a jacket over his arm which was clearly frayed and in need of serious work. 

His grandfather had known, his grandfather had always known. He’d been right the whole time, and Jimmy’s father- Jimmy’s father-! 

“Jimmy! I hate to bother you mid supper but I saw this and figured you better have it straight away- I have business to attend to out of town now that I’m engaged to Mary and-… Jimmy?” 

His father had known too, had probably been horribly ashamed. Maybe that was why Jimmy had always felt a distance from him- because his father had known and hadn’t want to admit the truth to himself. Hadn’t wanted to admit the truth to Jimmy- the horrible, horrible truth-

And suddenly, he couldn’t breath. 

His vision turned white, everything fading away as something hot exploded in his knees and his shoulders and neck zinged in clear pain. 

It was as if he were suddenly tugged from his body, disassociated with the rest of the world, so that while he knew it existed and that he himself existed in it, there was no clear connection as to why it mattered or why he should care. But even as a numbness overtook him, a horrible shaking panic rocked him to the core so that had he but possessed a breath in his body he would have screamed at the top of his lungs. Screamed so loudly that the very stars would have fallen from the heavens- knocked loose by his despair. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t- 

Someone had him by the arms and was talking rapidly in his ear. A hot Irish brogue. 

“Jimmy you have to talk to me- you have to tell me what’s wrong or I’m going’t’get Thomas a’ make no mistake-!” 

The name frightened Jimmy. He recoiled at once. “N-no! Not Thomas… Anyone b-but Thomas.” 

“But something’s wrong with you! Look at you, you’re shaking like a leaf- you’re cold as death-“ 

Jimmy could hear Branson’s voice, could feel the warmth of his touch, but he couldn’t see him. It was like he was consumed in a heavy early morning fog. As if he was floating above his own body and not actually looking out of his own eyes. The disassociation terrified Jimmy, and he whimpered in a pathetic blubbering wail. 

“I can’t breath-“ Jimmy bleated, as lost and helpless as a lamb away from his flock, “I can’t breath-“ 

“Jimmy, what’s going on?” Branson demanded, shaking him again, “Are you having pain in your chest, are you having a heart attack, what’s going on-?“ 

“Th-Th-Thomas-!” Jimmy blurted out, for he couldn’t tell if he was having a heart attack or not, if he was dying or not. Was he dying? It seemed entirely plausible. He ought to die of shame, of the terrible crushing shame. “Oh god- oh god I’m like Thomas- it’s true, it’s all true- I’m like Thomas oh god what have I done? What have I done? What’s to become of me?!” 

He was making no sense, crying hysterically into the arms of the man who was technically his employer as his whole world came crashing down and the stars of heaven shattered at his feet. 

He knew it. He knew what the truth was now but he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit it aloud without risking all. Just as Thomas- poor, sweet, beautiful Thomas- had risked all when he’d walked into Jimmy’s room late one October night. 

“Jimmy, breath-“ 

“I can’t- I can’t- I can’t!!” 

And then, with a resounding crack like a bullwhip, Branson smacked him across the face. 

His cheek flushed and stung, his eyesight spiraling in a whirlwind of color and shape as he slowly began to float back to earth. His soul seemed to drift back down to his body as Jimmy drew in one shuddering breath and then another, eyes widening then relaxing in an odd rhythm. His heart was pounding in his ears, his mouth was dry, his skin was drenched in sweat… but he was himself again. 

Branson was before him, hand still half raised as if he feared he might have to crack Jimmy again. He looked decidedly alarmed. His jacket, in need of repairs, lay forgotten on the floor between them. Branson held out his arms in an awkward cage, keeping Jimmy from falling on his face as Jimmy realized he was on his knees, slumped over and looking at the carpeted ground. When had he fallen? 

“… Better?” Branson asked, wary of what Jimmy might say. 

Jimmy looked up at Branson, at normal, honest, amicable Branson, and felt his bottom lip quiver. 

“… I’m like Thomas.” Jimmy whimpered. “I’m a- I’m a-“ 

His mind danced with bursting images of Thomas smiling at him only moments ago across the dinner table- of sexual fantasies Jimmy had never dared to think to long about where a heavy body might pin him into the mattress and dominate him heart and soul. He now put Thomas’ face to that body, and a rush of adrenaline and fear jolted through him as he realized just how endearing that image was. Just how much Jimmy wanted to be with Thomas, to be beneath Thomas, to never know a day if it wasn’t at Thomas’ side-

“A man of a different persuasion?” Branson guessed. 

Jimmy burst into noisy tears.   
He covered his face with both his hands, his dignity in tatters at his feet as he cried and cried while Branson bore unwilling witness to his long-coming revelation. He suddenly felt naked, as his soul was bared for the world to see, and in that moment he desperately wished Thomas was there to protect him and give him shelter. To keep Branson from seeing him cry; to keep the world from judging his fragile soul. But Thomas was downstairs and Jimmy was up- there was a mile of stone, wood, and carpet between them. It scared Jimmy, petrified him, and he suddenly crawled backward from Branson as he gazed upon the man with newfound fear. Before, Branson had seemed so normal and polite, bubbly and cheery with an Irish flair. Now Jimmy only saw his strong hands and Catholic upbringing. His staunch political beliefs. 

Jimmy suddenly realized how terribly dangerous the world was. How every man could be his enemy before he even met them. How every door might be slammed in his face now matter how dire his situation. It made him only long for Thomas even more, and as Jimmy’s back hit the wood he began to claw at the edge, reaching over his head for the handle. 

_Thomas_ , Jimmy thought in desperation, _I need Thomas!_   
And it was so true in so many ways. 

He needed Thomas' strength and wit. He needed Thomas' love and compassion. He needed Thomas' understanding, bravery, and romanticism. He needed Thomas' snarky comments and his cigarette smoke. He needed Thomas. 

“Jimmy, wait-“ Branson reached out a hand. “Wait, just listen to what I have to say, I’m not going to-“ 

But Jimmy had found the doorknob and he grabbed on tight. Using it as leverage to fumble back to his feet. Branson looked the slightest bit annoyed now, dropping his hand as Jimmy yanked the door open and fled from the room leaving both Branson and his bruised jacket behind. 

He cared utterly nothing for the jacket, nor its owner. He cared only for Thomas, and the safety, the love, waiting for him in Thomas’ arms. 

Thomas would know what to do. Thomas would understand.   
Thomas would always understand.   
He knew he was moving only because he could see the ground flying beneath his feet; first carpet, then wood, then finally stone as he hit the stairwell to the servants quarters and descended in the dark. He nearly ran over a startle hall boy as he hit the bottom floor, rushing right past Mrs. Hughes who had just come out of her office with freshly folded linens. He heard her calling after him, sounding alarmed, but paid her utterly no heed as he rounded the corner to the servant’s hall and saw Daisy standing with Andy by the piano. Both looked around, startled by the clatter of Jimmy nearly tripping over a chair stuck out at an odd angle. It seemed dinner was finished. 

“Where’s Thomas?!” Jimmy demanded. His heart pounded in his ears, a heavy constant drum. 

“He’s in the wine cellar, wh-“ Andy began, but Jimmy did not give him the opportunity to finish. He jerked around, and ran for his life, nearly knocking into Mrs. Hughes a second time as she came walking up to demand what was going on. Just like Andy, Jimmy gave her no time of day; he was a man on a mission with his mind already made up. 

If he ran to his noose, then so be it. 

He found the door the wine cellar closed, and yanked it open without a care as to who would follow after him, bounding down the steps into the gloom of the basement so that he was suddenly obscured on all sides by wine racks. He burst forth, into the dim light of the outer rim, and was suddenly overcome with a staggering wave of emotion as he saw Thomas paused by a basket full of wine. 

In the dusty light of the wine cellar, Thomas looked like an angel; the light behind him haloed his slicked hair perfectly. 

Jimmy was suddenly reminded of the dust that had surrounded Thomas during the fight at the Thirsk fair; of the smoke that had crept up past his elbows in Jimmy’s reoccurring dream. 

Of all the times Thomas had been obscured just to get Jimmy in the clear. 

_“Save me!”_ Jimmy wanted to scream. 

“James?” Thomas spluttered, taken aback by the site of Jimmy in such a sweaty state of disarray. But hearing Thomas call him James just made him more upset, more rilled up, and he pelted forward with a cry of _“Jimmy!”_ to grab Thomas by the lapels of his tails and shake his hard. Thomas hardly budged an inch, much too strong and broad chested to be swayed by Jimmy’s feeble strength; his eyes, however, widened significantly in clear dismay. 

“My name is Jimmy!” Jimmy cried out in absolute agony; he would not stand to be called James anymore! “And I- I won’t be called nothin’ else by you, you hear me?” 

Thomas bowed his head in defeat, “James I can’t-“ 

“Jimmy!” Jimmy shrieked, forcing Thomas to look back up again in shock at just how loud Jimmy’s voice was. Anyone passing at the top of the stairwell would be able to hear them now. “Say my name- say it like you used to say it- like there were no one else in the world but me-!” 

Jimmy didn’t care. He’d lost all sense of danger in that moment, the only thing he could focus on, could rationalize, was Thomas before him and how much he needed him. 

Thomas was speechless. He looked away, perhaps trying to compose himself, but Jimmy reached out to take him by the cheeks just as Thomas had done the night before and forced Thomas to look around. Thomas’ eyes were wide again, shocked by Jimmy’s brash behavior. 

“No- you look at me!” Jimmy demanded, “You look at me when I talk to you. You look at me and you see me. You call me by my name- no more games, Thomas. No more… No more hidin’ from each other. I won’t have it. I won’t, you hear me-?” 

His voice was cracking under the strain. Thomas reached out in sympathy to touch Jimmy’s chin. The slightest little tug, so endearing and sweet. 

“Jimmy, it can’t-“ Thomas whispered, but Jimmy cut him off before he could give even one more ridiculous lie. 

“You’re right, it can’t.” Jimmy said in a heated rush, words flying out of his mouth before he could rationalize them or explain them, “It can’t go on this way cause… cause… cause…” 

_Cause?_

“Cause I know now what I need to say.” Jimmy’s voice shook wildly. “What I have to say.”   
Thomas looked like he might faint; his handsome face was utterly white. His thumb was still upon Jimmy’s chin, so close to his bottom lip that the tip of the nail was pressing into its flesh. 

Jimmy wished he had the courage to kiss that thumb, but feared what Thomas would do in reaction. Suddenly Jimmy realized how Thomas must have felt all through the fall of 1920, and a hot wave of shame swashed around inside his stomach. It made him feel queasy. 

“I can give you what you want.” Jimmy blurted out. Immediately he felt his eyes begin to burn. Thomas said nothing, silent as the grave Jimmy had nearly made him fill, “I can, more than her. I can give you more than anyone ever could, and I don’t care about Daisy, or your family, or society, or any other wall you’re gonna throw up in my face. I’m more important than those walls. D’you understand? Do you?!” 

Jimmy shook Thomas by the lapels. He was yet to speak. 

“…An’ an I’m going with you to see your mother.” Thomas opened his mouth, “No- shuttup!” Jimmy shrieked, his heart pounding in his throat. He was terrified of what Thomas might say. 

God if he denied Jimmy now, there would be no going back. No sanctuary. No peace. No sanity. Jimmy would crack and crumble in this wine cellar and be left to rot there till the end of time. 

“I’m going with you. Cause I need you, and I wanna see her. I wanna meet her. I wanna look into her eyes, and tell her that i need her son. And you’re not gonna deny me that y’hear me? Not when my mother is dead.” 

Shame consumed Jimmy as tears began to slip down his flushed cheeks. He couldn’t say why he was crying; if it were out of fear, passion, or even hope. He only that he could not take it anymore, could not hold it in. 

Thomas was moved, eyes sparkling with the queerest mixture of sheer joy and disbelief as he stroked the wetness from Jimmy’s flushed face… just like the night before. 

“Cause I’m what you want, and what you need… and I…” Jimmy’s voice got stuck in his throat; for a moment he could not finish his sentence for the sheer emotion he felt. The sheer truth behind it. “I need you.” 

And he did. He truly did. 

“Don’t abandon me,” Jimmy begged, hating himself for how his lip trembled in cowardice and weakness, “Don’t leave me, Thomas- don’t leave me when I need you. When I can give you what you need. What you deserve. What I deserve. What we deserve.” 

Thomas swallowed several times, perhaps not trusting his voice for the moment.   
Jimmy could hardly believe him. 

“And what…” Thomas croaked; Jimmy had never heard so much emotion in his voice save for the night of the incident. 

The night of the kiss. 

“And what do we deserve?” 

But this was easy, wasn’t it? As simple as breathing and counting to three. As easy as taking a hit of cold gin and spinning round the dance floor. This was their fate; their destiny… their lifeblood. 

“Each other.” Jimmy whispered, and in a moment of sheer bravery (or stupidity) he lifted himself up on tip toe to press his forehead endearingly into Thomas’. Thomas drew a shuddering breath, hardly daring to believe it at all. 

“So don’t you dare leave me.” Jimmy whispered, and as another gush of emotional barrage smacked into him again he felt more tears slip down his already wet cheeks. Thomas’ hands were still upon his face, cupping him…holding him so tenderly and securely that Jimmy felt certain he wouldn’t fall even though he was on tiptoe. “For that stupid kitchen maid… you stay with me, and love me, and need me. And I’ll-“ 

Jimmy hitched a breath, “I’ll give you everything you deserve and need in return. Everything you want. Everything.” 

_Everything?_ Jimmy’s brain warned, even as Thomas’ eyes fluttered closed. Even as he pressed his nose against Jimmy’s- their lips weren’t touching yet. Couldn’t touch yet. It wasn’t time, it wasn’t right… _Everything, Jimmy? Can you truly give him everything?_

“Oh Jimmy…” Thomas whispered into his cheek.   
He brought his arms down, and as they came around Jimmy’s waist, Jimmy fell back onto his heels to bury his soaking face into Thomas’ bowtie. It was stiff with starch against his face, and slightly painful to his sensitive and flushed cheeks. He didn’t care. 

He held tight to Thomas, and found in that embrace all the strength and comfort he’d been needing for weeks- for months truly. He’d tried to find this strength, this comfort, this incredible peace at the bottom of a gin bottle and the hot stage of a jazz hall. He’d sought it out in every dame that had flashed him her gams, and any betting table that had a spare seat. He’d tried to capture it in shitty lyrics, in beautiful berceuses… but he’d failed. 

He’d failed because the strength had never lain in him. It had lain in Thomas.   
And now, it was his to covet. To hide in. 

 

“Jimmy…” Thomas whispered his name into his hair; it was clear Thomas was still stuck in a shock, unable to properly process what the hell had just happened. How in five seconds Jimmy had turned around from being a brick wall to an open door. 

Jimmy couldn’t bear the shame of it. To know he’d forced Thomas to endure such suffering for his sake…. his pitiful, pathetic sake. 

“I didn’t know I was like you, Thomas.” Jimmy whimpered into his bowtie, though it was hardly an adequate apology or explanation. “I didn’t know… Please forgive me-“ 

But Thomas’ hand was cupping the back of his hand, securing him in such a warm and sweet hold that Jimmy thought he might explode into a wave of hysterical tears for the sheer comfort it brought to him. As if Thomas had already forgiven him. As if he hadn’t even needed forgiving at all. 

“Forgive me.” Jimmy moaned, his voice muffled by Thomas’ livery. 

“For what, Jimmy?” Thomas whispered into his hair, even as he nestled his chin atop Jimmy’s head. “For what.” 

Jimmy had already closed his eyes, his heart slowing down at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The woods are lovely dark and deep, but we have promises to keep... and miles to go before we sleep.   
> So don't get too distracted making snow angels. We're not out of the woods yet.


	21. Paging Dr. Kent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked to Jimmy for an answer. Jimmy gave him a dark if understanding smile, and took the doorknob in hand to push it open. The wood creaked upon the hinges, revealing a darkened room inside with curtains drawn and sheer bed hangings pulled. A lone candle sat burning in its casement upon the bedside table.
> 
> Upon the four poster bed, a frail woman slept fretfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes another emotional chapter. 
> 
> Ask and ye shall receive.

Very few times in Thomas’ life had he experienced such a change in luck, such a clear change in view.   
The only thing Thomas could compare it to was being found beneath that bridge by Mr. Burland, the warmth of his coat heavy and comforting upon Thomas’ thin frame. Jimmy wrapped around his chest, his face burrowed into the crook of Thomas’ neck had been just the same- heavy and comforting. Like Thomas could be buried peacefully under the weight of Jimmy’s flesh and never know a day without him. 

Jimmy had been absolutely right: He was what Thomas wanted and needed, but never in his wildest day dreams (be they a forced opium high or a drunken dalliance) had Thomas ever imagined Jimmy would willingly proclaim that he needed Thomas back. But he had, and so readily, with such determination and such…. such… 

Such fear. 

_“Don’t abandon me, don’t leave me!” Jimmy had begged in fear, “When I can give you what you need. What you deserve. What I deserve. What we deserve-“_

And Thomas had been so tempted to know, so desperate to understand, just what Jimmy thought they deserved that he had to ask. And so he had. 

_“Each other.”_ Jimmy had replied. And boy… that had been nice to hear. Nice to imagine that Jimmy even believed such a thing… but Thomas had trouble wondering if it was true. But then he’d pressed his forehead to Thomas’, and begged him to stay and love him. To need him. And in return…? 

_“I’ll give you everything you deserve and need in return. Everything you want. Everything.”_

Everything. 

But what was everything? 

To some men, that could be a sexual innuendo. Everything from Jimmy tied up on a bed to Jimmy bent over the back of a couch with his legs spread and his arse cheeks flaming red from a cane. Everything could mean depraved orgies and explicit access- quickies in closets and blow jobs late in the night- wild outright fucks that could last for hours in seedy motel rooms and forest hideaways. Nothing but the earth, sweat, damp fallen leaves sticking to Jimmy’s bare back as some bastard took him again and again. Till he was dripping with release both his own and foreign. 

But to Thomas, ‘everything’ meant something more. 

His isolation and solitude, his paranoia and anxiety, his depleted life bleak and barren stretched out before him; Thomas wanted to shuck it all and take up something new. He wanted a life that was his own, a life he could enjoy and be proud of. Not sucking up to Carson or Lord Grantham- not hating John Bates for his golden luck or his golden wife. Not bumbling around in some dirty countryside where the fields turned to mud every time it rained. No, Thomas wanted to live, and to live well- and if Jimmy wanted in on it then Thomas wanted to live with him. He wanted to see Jimmy first thing when he opened his eyes. Wanted to kiss Jimmy even before they’d applied tooth powder or chewed on a peppermint. Wanted to dress with Jimmy, bathe with Jimmy, work with Jimmy and eat with Jimmy. Wanted to sleep in the same bed with Jimmy- sex or no- and wanted to die with Jimmy…. wrapped up in his arms as close as close could be. He didn’t just want to fuck Jimmy, or to own him in some perverse sexual sense. He wanted to love Jimmy, to worship him, to praise him and keep him… and above all, to know him. To know every golden thought that flitted through his perfect head. 

That was ‘Everything’ to Thomas. That and all he could never voice. 

 

Jimmy hadn’t known he was like Thomas, and had begged for forgiveness. 

What he couldn’t comprehend, due to his crushing guilt and his fear of the future, was that he’d never have to ask Thomas for forgiveness. Particularly on that subject. 

Thomas had begged for forgiveness to his father, to god, to anyone who would listen and anyone would care. But no one had listened and no one had cared… and so Thomas had learned not to apologize. To beg for nothing, from no one. 

He would show Jimmy how to do the same. 

It had been easy to stave off Daisy’s curiosities. To simply say he’d needed a day out to get some air. To be alone. In a way, she’d rather him be alone than be around Jimmy and Thomas knew why. Daisy could smell the betrayal on Jimmy and Thomas like a wolf might smell blood on the air. Every time her brown eyes danced on Jimmy’s skin, they alit with a flame of jealousy and just a touch of fear. She could see the danger that lay in Jimmy’s beauty, charisma, and soul. What she couldn’t see was Jimmy slipping away through the upstairs while walking Branson to the door with his coat and hat in hand- using the excuse of helping Branson to the car with Lady Mary in order to get out with Thomas unseen. Mrs. Hughes knew the truth about where he was going (someone had to when the stakes were this high) and Mrs. Patmore packed him a sandwich before he slipped out the back. 

When Daisy had pecked him on the cheek, it had felt like she was sticking hot tar on his cheek. He’d been unable to kiss her back. 

He doubted he would ever be able to kiss her again after last night. 

Jimmy and Thomas had walked in silence to the village train station, a journey which would have been filled with gab if Daisy were on his arm. She would have talked about some such thing or another while Thomas kept in silence, and by the time they’d reached the train station Thomas would undoubtably have a headache. With Jimmy, Thomas felt an incredible sense of peace and purpose which coupled powerfully to make his stride long and his attitude firm. Somehow, he reasoned, he would have to get Jimmy into his father’s house without his father realizing that Jimmy was like Thomas. Thomas contemplated it the entire way to Stockport, smoking in silence while Jimmy sat by his side and shared in his cigarette. They passed the fag between them till it was burnt away to nothing and Thomas disposed of it in a communal ash tray while Jimmy rested his golden head against the back of the seat. Picking up a newspaper left discarded on the seat, Thomas pretended to read while instead using the paper to mask the fact he was watching Jimmy sleep. Jimmy would open his blue eyes to glance at Thomas’ face. The pair of them could have been reading as far as their fellow passengers were concerned… instead they were watching each other. 

Jimmy had been nervous the entire morning, afraid of his prior admittance and what it would mean for them, no doubt. He needn’t have worried. They would go as slow as Jimmy needed for him to come to terms with his newfound identity. It hardly changed anything at all, as far as Thomas was concerned… save one tiny detail. 

Well, not tiny. 

They arrived at Stockport on the two o’clock train, and found the market packed. Thomas wove in and out of shoppers, his mind abuzz with possibilities. He couldn’t claim Jimmy for a friend as a sole excuse to get him into the house- his father would be too suspicious and would never let them through the door. Jimmy had to have a purpose for being there, one that even his father could not deny… and then the idea came to him: 

Thomas’ mother was sick, incredibly ill. She needed a doctor. Thomas a medic, and while he certainly was no Dr. Clarkson, he could use was meager training he had to make a proper diagnosis and provide some amount of treatment. Thomas could pretend Jimmy was a doctor, feed him the information she needed… and get him past Thomas’ father. 

“Alright, Jimmy. Here’s the plan.” Thomas muttered as they walked through Sokol Park. He stroke up another cigarette, and after taking a drag he handed it over to Jimmy who greedily sucked it down. “My father is about as dangerous a man as you can get-“ 

“Yeah sort of figured that.” Jimmy muttered, all very nonchalant. 

“In order to get you past him and to my mother, we’re going to have to pretend you’re a doctor. I’ve got some medic training from the RAMC, so we’re going to say that’s where we met. That you’re a medic, and that you work as an assistant to Dr. Clarkson.” 

Jimmy didn’t look chuffed about being associated with Clarkson but shrugged. 

“If it works, it works.” Jimmy declared, “Me mum always said I could be a doctor.” 

“Did she really?” Thomas asked; the exited the park and began their trek on the other side. It wouldn’t be long now before they passed the Baxter family home. 

“Nah.” Jimmy said, and Thomas snorted, “She wanted me to be a tailor.” 

Thomas could see Jimmy as a tailor, fixing up dresses and vests only to wear them himself. Maybe he’d make Thomas a suit or two; something really snazzy in blue. They passed _Stockport Selections_. 

They came around the bend, and then… ?

Jimmy gazed up upon the face of _Barrow and Sons Clockworks_ , equal parts disgusted and amazed. It seemed he’d taken Thomas for a different sort of man- maybe imagined that a clock shop was more glamorous. The stark truth of the matter was that Thomas’ childhood had been coated in dust and grime. The house had never been clean, despite how his mother had tried to keep on top of the filth. His father just seemed accumulate messes where ever he went. 

 

“So this is it, eh?” Jimmy gestured up and down at the grimy brick building and its set column front, “The Barrow Cradle? Can’t help but picture you bleeding on the stoop.” 

Thomas feigned to point to the ground to the left of Jimmy’s feet, the very spot where he’d landed in the snow. 

Maybe Jimmy was trying to be nonchalant, to appear unfazed, but Thomas knew better now and could see the stress in Jimmy’s eyes as he pulled his newscap down over his eyes and gave a hearty sniff. To everyone else, Jimmy must look like the perfect little boy scout- hard working and hard playing. To Thomas, Jimmy looked petrified; he kept rubbing his hands on his vest, from where they were no doubt sweating. If Jimmy had only been a woman, Thomas would have taken Jimmy’s hand in his own, but to do so now on a public street in front of his family home was tantamount to suicide. 

“Try not to think about it.” Thomas advised, “There’s no way I’ll be able to get you past my father unless you keep your calm. You mustn’t be afraid.” 

“What are you on about,” Jimmy snorted, “I am calm!” 

That would have been slightly more believable if Jimmy’s voice hadn’t jumped like a child for a penny lick. 

“Afraid…. what rubbish.” Jimmy sneered, tipping his newscap to no one in particular as he rocked on the balls of his feet and looked up at the shop front, “Whose afraid? Not me. No sir.”

And though it was obviously a lie, Thomas couldn’t help but be amused. 

“No.” Thomas smiled as Jimmy gave him a beautiful if not cocky grin. “You’re very brave.” 

They stepped up onto the stoop, Thomas in front and Jimmy behind; as Thomas reached out for the doorknob he paused to look over his shoulder and found Jimmy hovering hesitantly. It was like he expected Thomas’ father to jump out of the shadowed hallway with a knife. 

“Don’t be afraid, Jimmy.” Thomas repeated. This time, he meant it. 

Jimmy shook his head determined, a few blond locks bouncing in front of his dark eyes. 

“I’m not.” He said resolutely, “I’m with you.” 

Thomas smiled against Jimmy’s poor logic, and opened the door wide. 

 

When Thomas had last come to call, it had been Sunday and the shop closed. Now the shop was opened for Wednesday business, and there were several customers walking around the sales floor. In childhood, Thomas had had strict orders to keep his head down behind the front desk and not disturb the clients. He’d found this easy to do, curled up with a book and an apple to eat, and had made a nest for himself out of his father’s traveling coat. As an adult, Thomas was free to walk about the shop, but as he entered the main sales room he bristled at the sight of his father leaning over the front desk with an older gentleman’s pocket watch in hand. They were conversing, knee deep in some sort of negotiation. Thomas’ father had not yet spotted him; at his elbow, Jimmy was eyeing him with wary distaste. 

“…That’s him, isn’t it.” Jimmy muttered into Thomas’ ear, taking in the sight of Thomas’ father from his salt and pepper hair to his scarred and weathered hands. Despite attempting to be friendly to paying clients, he still looked rather menacing, hulked over with circles beneath his eyes. 

Thomas nodded, forcing a resigned smile onto his face as he crossed the sales floor to make a bee line for the door the back stairwell just beyond the front desk. Jimmy followed him at a tight pace, eager not to be left behind. 

“— These older watches are fine heirloom pieces for our children and there’s no reason why your watch shouldn’t be passed onto your grandson-“ Thomas’ father continued conversing with the man, but as Thomas walked behind him, Thomas' father abruptly let go of the pocket watch with one hand to reach behind and snag Thomas hard by the arm in a commanding and painful grip. Thomas’ heart jumped into his throat, and he froze mid-step so that Jimmy was forced to back track. He eyed where Thomas’ father held him with a frightened stare- one that Thomas had to quickly (albeit nonverbally) correct him to stop. Jimmy tried to look untroubled, shucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. Thomas narrowed his eyes, wary that Jimmy would not play the part of doctor well. Jimmy seemed to recognize this at the same time, and immediately stopped bouncing about to instead feign interest in a pocket watch beneath the glass countertop. He stroked his chin as if contemplating buying it.

“I’ll leave it in your hands then.” The customer agreed; he was a balding man with an enormous walrus mustache. Thomas’ father set the pocket watch down to shake the man’s hand, keeping Thomas in a firm grip with the other. 

“She should be ready by Friday.” Thomas’ father said. “I tend to make these older pieces the apple of my eye.” 

This was quite accurate. Thomas could remember watching his father work at the kitchen table while his mother made salted cod cakes and beef stew; he’d refused to eat till his project was completed, often allowing his family to eat around him while he worked only to take his own supper right before bed. 

“Until then, Mr. Barrow.” the man tipped his head, and turned for the door. Thomas’ father took the watch off the table, sliding it across the wood gently to open a side drawer beneath the counter and tuck it inside. He turned, momentarily abandoning the view of his sales floor to instead look at Thomas and Jimmy. Thomas did not miss the way his father’s eyes narrowed with instant mistrust as he noticed Jimmy’s blue vest and dark flat cap- his handsome face and staunch stare. 

“Margie said you’d be stoppin’ by.” Thomas’ father said. “Didn’t mention your company though.” 

“This i Dr. Kent. He’s the assistant to our village doctor, a one Richard Clarkson… a friend of mine from the war.” Thomas supplied, and was amazed at Jimmy’s bravery when he stuck out his hand at once to shake. Thomas’ father let go of Thomas’ arm, shaking Jimmy’s hand. “When Margie mentioned Mum’s state-“ 

“That’s good of you, Tommy.” Thomas’ father replied, and it was a mark of his sincerity that he used Thomas’ childhood nickname as he spoke. He dropped Jimmy’s hand (Thomas noticed Jimmy flexing it as if the shake had been tight gripped) but his eyes never strayed from Jimmy’s face. “But we’ve had our fill of Doctors.” 

“She took a turn the other day, Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy asked, in what Thomas assumed was supposed to be his most posh and learned accent. He sounded like a right little toff; Thomas did everything he could to keep his face neutral despite how terrified he felt. The day before, he’d been determined for his father and Jimmy to never meet. Now they were standing before one another having an actual conversation… and Jimmy was weaving a lie. 

“Correct.” Thomas’ father crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I’d like to examine her, just to see what her current state is.” Jimmy offered, using the same care-free smile he’d tried on Carson the first day he’d walked into the servant’s hall, “You know how these things are- she can shift from one day to the next like a sea tide. I might be able to prescribe her something for the pain.” 

Thomas’ father seemed to consider it, tilting his head from side to side. 

_Please god_ , Thomas prayed in that moment, _If you exist, if you care anything for me at all, don’t let him catch us out._

“She needs something, sure enough.” Thomas’ father admitted; Thomas’ heart was pounding so loud in his chest he feared his father might hear it. “Go on up, though I don’t know what good it’ll do for you.” 

“Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy tipped his hat with another small smile, and turned swiftly to make a bee line for the door. 

“Sir.” Thomas nodded, hastening after Jimmy lest he be left behind. He looked over his shoulder once before he closed the door, and saw his father being engaged in conversation again by a young woman with rosy cheeks and a bright smile. She seemed to be purchasing something for her fiancé. 

Sequestered in the muted quiet of the back stairwell, Jimmy turned on Thomas with delight, grinning from ear to ear as he declared, “I just parroted what I heard the doctor say about me own mum.” 

“Very good improv.” Thomas praised, and Jimmy beamed all the harder for it. 

They ascended the stairs together, Thomas first. It was incredible to see how little had changed in the fifteen years of his absence. The same threadbare couch sat pressed against the closest wall of the second floor landing; the same glass coffee table at its feet with a crack in the frame from where Thomas’ head had collided with it on that fateful night. Thomas reached down to touch it, his fingertips finding the groove and rubbing it tenderly as if by treating it nice the glass might heal. He noticed a new picture on the side table, and his heart leapt a little when he saw the image of a dark haired youth in infantry uniform glaring at him from beyond the frame. 

Daniel. 

Thomas immediately stepped around the coffee table and couch, and plucked up the photo to observe it closely, amazed at the young man who scowled back at him. When Thomas had left, Danny had been seven- a wild eyed boy with a delight for causing mischief and digging up earthworms in the garden patch out back. He’d wanted nothing to do with school, sitting still, or staying clean, and for that reason he’d been the bane of their mother’s existence (though she’d never scolded him for it). He’d been the type to declare himself courageous and unbeatable, and then in turn run screaming for cover behind Thomas or Margret when his father had gotten sick of his whining and gone for the belt. At times, Thomas had thought Daniel was the whiniest child in existence, and had yelled at him many times to ‘pipe down, already!’ when he was having one of his black days. 

_“Ugh-!” Thomas could remember yelling as Danny threw a fit on the kitchen floor, “Would you shuttup!? You’re going to get us in trouble!”_

_Danny had just kept howling and thrashing. Thomas had snapped and leapt atop him, pinning him to the old wood and smacking him hard about the face and ears._

_“Shuttup! Shuttup! Shuttup!” Thomas had screamed, only to gasp in terror and pain as an iron grip found the back of his throat and yanked him off his brother. His father had appeared out of no where to drag him from the kitchen, an arm pinned behind his back by his father’s other hand as he was drug into his bedroom and forced to stand in the center of the cramped room as his father slammed the door hard effectively locking them both in._

_Danny had stopped throwing a fit when he’d heard Thomas screaming from his bedroom._

Thomas closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to regain his sense of self. Being in this house was making him feel small and sick- making him feel pinned and isolated. He half expected his father to return upstairs and start beating him again, and looked over his shoulder nervously only to find Jimmy standing there, curious to the photo he was holding. 

“Danny.” Thomas mumbled, gesturing to the photograph he held. 

As a teenager, Danny had adopted a dark and hateful look in his eyes, something a wild animal might wear if pinned in a cage, and had a mop of black hair that looked like it couldn’t be untangled with a garden rake. The dark circles beneath his eyes and the fierce furrow in his brow spoke ages of growing up in an abusive household without an older brother to protect him. 

_“Danny lied about his age and joined up just to get out of the house.” Margret had said. “Danny blamed him for your absence. Danny wanted to be an artist.”_

Jimmy looked on, touching the frame absently. “I can see you in him.” Jimmy said. 

Suddenly Thomas could remember a night when a horrid thunderstorm had reigned terror over Stockport, splitting ancient trees with hot bolts of lightning; Danny had climbed into his bed, cowering underneath Thomas’ thin blankets. It had occurred during the same year as Thomas’ downfall; a summer when storms had painted the fields a muddy brown only to roll into a fierce winter. Little was Thomas to know he’d soon feel the bite without a coat. 

Danny had hidden in his arms with his face pressed to Thomas’ chest.   
Thomas had been more like a father to him at times than a brother. He’d certainly looked after him more. 

Thomas sat the photograph back down, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Jimmy was at his shoulder, pressing a hesitant hand to the crook of his elbow. 

How could Jimmy know that the tiny touch he offered was ten times more comforting to Thomas than any of Daisy’s kisses? 

“It’s just like a dream.” Thomas admitted, looking around the living room; he spotted the door that had once lead to his bedroom and cross the short distance to try the handle. It opened to reveal a storage closet, but there sure enough was Thomas and Danny’s old beds, jammed on opposite sides of the room. Jimmy peeked his head into the room, as if he expected to find Thomas’ mother inside. 

“Just some horrid dream.” Thomas mumbled, closing the door back. 

“C’mon.” Jimmy murmured, and he offered Thomas a hesitant smile that Thomas did not return, “Don’t dally round this nonsense. Where’s your mum?” 

Surely she would be in his parent’s bedroom. Thomas gestured silently to the kitchen entryway, an open gap in the house that was crowded by a project table covered in clock parts. They entered the kitchen to find it just as Thomas had left it in his youth, save that there was now a wooden icebox nestled comfortably across the room from the coal stove. They’d been comfortably middle class, with a range top holding four eyes and four warming ovens beneath. It was a tiny cramped instrument compared to the massive range top that Mrs. Patmore boasted back at the Abbey… but it had cooked every one of Thomas’ cherished Christmas meals. There were solid oak worktops spread around, and wicker baskets along with frying pans hung from the ceiling on rusting iron hooks. A large laundry basket full of chopped logs sat cramped in the corner; it would be unneeded until winter. The heat was sweltering in their house, and Thomas wiped a bit at the back of his neck as Jimmy noticed the far door that lead to his parent’s bedroom. He pointed with a questioning glance, and Thomas nodded silently. 

Jimmy strode to the door, but stopped just short of opening it. Thomas followed at a slower pace, unsure of why he wasn’t running like his life depended upon it. 

He’d waited fifteen years for this moment. What was taking him so long? 

“…Thomas?” Jimmy was concerned for Thomas’ lack of enthusiasm as Thomas stared at the old black doorknob, wondering at what it held locked inside. 

“… I don’t know why I can’t go in.” Thomas admitted, cocking his head to the left as his fingers stroked the doorknob. “Is’like… now that I’m here…?” 

He looked to Jimmy for an answer. Jimmy gave him a dark if understanding smile, and took the doorknob in hand to push it open. The wood creaked upon the hinges, revealing a darkened room inside with curtains drawn and sheer bed hangings pulled. A lone candle sat burning in its casement upon the bedside table.

Upon the four poster bed, a frail woman slept fretfully. 

Jimmy hung back by the door as Thomas drew a shuddering breath, silent while his emotions began to spiral out of control. He kept each of them in check, though his eyes could not help but linger upon the grayed curls of his mother’s loosened hair. He could just see her image beyond the shadow of her curtains, her face muddied by the gauze, but still as beautiful as Thomas remembered. 

It was with greatest dignity and pause that Thomas walked around the edge of his mother’s marriage bed, eyes locked on her aging face. The graying complexion mingled with a haze of sweat brought on by fever, and in the candlelight she appeared to shine like dully polished silver. She stirred at the sound of Thomas’ footsteps, and as she turned her face upon her pillow her brow crinkled with confusion. She was awakening, but in a dull trace warped by medication, and did not fully comprehend who Thomas was at first as she peered through the gaps in her sheer bed curtains and the dark shadows of her sequestered bed chamber. He could have been a phantom to her then, a vision from a dream; perhaps she had imagined him coming to her before, and took him for a continued hallucination now. Yet even as she feared it for a trick, even as she drew back on her pillow, her lips thin and blue started to turn upwards in a hopeful smile. 

“Thomas?” She called out in a tiny hesitant breath of noise. It was as if she feared to speak too loudly lest he vanish into the darkness and leave her wanting. 

Thomas reached out and took her bed curtain in hand, in one deft movement pulling it back so that it grew taught upon its upper pole. Now able to see him clearly, his mother’s blue eyes widened in ecstasy and relief as she exclaimed, “Oh, Thomas! My darling-!” 

He could not help himself. As if yanked by an invisible string Thomas to her side, and when he connected with her he could not let go as he collapsed upon the mattress and into her outstretched hands. All the misery, all the depression, all the anxiety of living under constant strain for the past fifteen years bundled up in a horrible hurdle inside of him until he could stand it anymore in the face of his mother- in the face of someone who would endlessly protect him if only she had the strength- and he broke down completely upon her duvet to weep into her hands. 

“Oh, don’t weep-“ She was urging, “Please don’t-“ even as she allowed him to cup her hands about her face. It was as if she was catching his tears, keeping them from falling as they pooled through her pale and clammy fingers. He’d reached for these hands desperately on that fateful December night. Had reached for them every single time in his youth when his father had turned on him and had been violent. 

How many times had his mother scooped him up in her arms or pulled his father off of him, screaming _“Nathaniel, stop!”_

Here was the one who knew him best; who loved him best. 

“Let me look at you-“ she begged, insistent as she tried to raise his face up. Thomas was ashamed for his mother to see the pain in his face, but did as she bid so that they now looked eye to eye. Her gaze was powerful, captivating him as she took him in. It was as if she could look at only him forever, and that would be enough. 

“There…” She said, amazed as she stroked his chin, cheek, and nose with the knuckles of her wrinkled hand. Her fingers were cool and soothing, “I know you. I know you.” She said, in an endearing and even comical voice. 

_Yes_. Thomas thought dumbly as she held his face, _Yes you do know me_. 

“I haven’t seen you in fifteen years…” She declared, her blue eyes twinkling with mirth even as she admitted to their sorrow, “But here you are, my sweet Thomas.” 

Suddenly she seemed to drift, simply taking him in. Simply holding him and wondering. Thomas’ eyes fluttered shut as she stroked his cheeks over and over again. He couldn’t recall having been held like this in far too long- as if by a mother. 

“My wonderful Thomas.” She whispered, “My brave, brave Thomas. My wonderful, brave Thomas…” 

It was foolishness, idle prattle, but more precious to him than he could ever convey in words. It almost made him feel like a child again, as if he could curl up in her arms and hide from the world instead of having to face it with all the conviction of a fully frown man. It was so strange in that moment that Thomas did not feel connected to Downton Abbey. He didn’t even feel connected to Jimmy, as weird as it was. He only felt connected to his mother. To this sweltering dark room in which he hid. As if he was already sealed inside his crypt and could rot with her here forever if he so chose. 

“Is it true?” She asked, her tone picking up, “An under butler?— oh tell me everything.” 

Oh yes, it’s true, Thomas thought miserably, the sudden weight of his prior sins beginning to pile up on his chest even as he sat and pondered them all before his mother. It had all seemed so natural, so easy when he’d been younger. Steal a bit here, lie a bit there, protect yourself at all costs and damn the rest. But before his mother now, Thomas realized just how much of a prick he’d been. An absolute fucking prick. 

He’d done it for a reason, had been able to justify every action… but now he wasn’t so sure. Now, he was ashamed. 

Thomas nodded into her hands, eyes fluttering open to see how she beheld him. How mystified she was; delighted. He got drunk on her joy- but knew what was waiting at the end. The disappointment. 

“I… left for London.” Thomas mumbled, finding it difficult to speak clearly beyond the croaking lump in his throat, “I worked in a small household for a while being trained. I learned of a post in Yorkshire for a junior footman… and I took it. I worked up to the status of first footman-“ 

_And stole twenty four bottles of wine, a snuff box, ten quid, and a dog_. 

“And then I became a valet-“ 

_After rejoicing in an innocent man’s imprisonment and tricking his lord_.

“And then I became um…” _after assaulting the man I love in his sleep_ , “an under butler-“ 

He clamped down on his tongue, damning the tears he nearly let fall at his own cruelty and stupidity. Before his mother, Thomas felt like he was being judged in the eyes of a benevolent god whose mercy he did not deserve. 

“Such a hard worker…” his mother praised. 

“No. I’m not.” Thomas blubbered, undone by her generosity. He bowed his head in shame again, “I stole and I was an asshole-“ and at this he broke again, his guilt crushing him spirit and all.

“Shh-“ His mother allowed him to hide his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her wet fingers. “No. No… No not you.” She soothed. But then- “Stole-?” her voice twitched upward, confused. Thomas nodded, whimpering into her hands. 

She reached a hand back to flick at the tip of his nose with a pinched pointer finger, curled against a thumb. Thomas winced, though it hardly hurt and certainly wasn’t what he deserved. If only she were stronger, she would have been able to take the rolling pin and whack him around the head with it. 

“Ow.” Thomas whispered, twitching his nose to dispel the sensation as his mother placed her hand back on his cheek. 

“No more of that, now.” She warned, but she still wore a sweet smile. She tapped the end of his nose, right where she’d flicked it. The tiniest bandaid to the tiniest wound. “I take no excuses for poor behavior from you, Thomas. Don’t make me get out of this bed.” 

Thomas smiled blearily. Jimmy snorted in the corner, amused. 

The noise seemed to have awoken his mother to the presence of someone else in the room, and her head shifted upon the pillow as she spotted Jimmy lingering in the door. Jimmy stepped inside, effectively shutting the door behind him so that they were all cast into darkness once again, and his mother blinked as Jimmy came around the edge of the bed. The candle made his golden hair glimmer and shine, lighting up his flawless skin like polished marble. 

“Hello, who’s this?” She wondered, her brow crinkling a little. Thomas wiped his eyes hastily, his whole face soaked with tears so that he had to resort to his sleeve. He’d given his handkerchief to Jimmy back at the Abbey, though he didn’t regret an inch of it even as he sniffled and winced. 

“Jimmy Kent.” Jimmy introduced himself, his voice as soothing as he sat down upon the opposite edge of his mother’s bed. The mattress dipped a little beneath him. “At your service.” 

His mother’s brow crinkled a little, still confused. Jimmy tipped his head to the side: “I wanted to thank you.” 

“Thank me for what?” She asked, curious. 

“For Thomas.” Jimmy said; Thomas looked away, flushing. He was too open, too raw, too exposed. He couldn’t take such conversations. 

But his mother was smiling now, on the verge of beaming despite her frail and weakened state. She still held onto his hands, her grip pale but her touch soothing as she whispered. “How did you sneak him past your father?” amazed. 

Thomas shrugged, sniffing again. He looked to the door, trying to compose himself. 

“Said I was a doctor.” Jimmy explained, “Stupid lump swallowed it.” 

His mother laughed at this, a soft breathy lilt as she ran her thumb soothingly upon Thomas’ pulse at his wrist. “Stupid lump, is he?” She offered coyly. 

The door opened, effectively cutting off what ever Jimmy had been about to say, and the conversation came to an abrupt cold pause as Thomas’ father was revealed upon the threshold. He eyed Thomas sitting upon the bed with clear disapproval, arms crossing over his chest as he glowered. 

“Thomas come away from there.” His father demanded at once, “Let Dr. Kent do his work.” 

“But-“ Thomas looked over his shoulder at his mother’s waning face, wiping hastily at his eyes again so that his father wouldn’t see the trace of tears there. 

“You heard what I said.” his father snapped. 

“My examination shouldn’t take too long, Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy snapped into the role of doctor with ease, and even reached down to take Thomas’ mother’s pulse under his fingers, opening his pocket watch from reference. “I’ll give you the all clear in a few moments.” 

_Look at you, you little thespian_. Thomas could not help but feel proud. 

“… Come away from there.” His father said, and his tone had taken a stern edge, “And don’t make me tell you again.” 

Thomas rose up, his mother’s hand squeezing him in silent comfort as Thomas slipped from her touch and the room. 

Jimmy watched him go, his fingers never straying from Thomas’ mother’s pulse. 

~*~

He watched Thomas go with bitter reassignment to Thomas’ treatment at his father’s hardened hands; despite the bedroom door closing Jimmy could still hear Thomas’ muffled protests just outside and his father’s hardened replies. Suddenly alone in his mother’s bedroom, Jimmy felt slightly awkward touching her pulse and retracted his hands at once to fold them neatly upon his lap. 

Mrs. Barrow smiled, seemingly enchanted by him and his tip-of-the-hat acting. 

“What now, Dr. Kent?” She asked, willing to play along if only for the moment, “Will you keep me from my oldest long?” 

Jimmy shook his head. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t know the first thing about examining a patient, and would have better luck dissecting the human brain. 

“I won’t beat about the bush.” He murmured, keeping his voice low lest Mr. Barrow overhear from beyond the door. “Life doesn’t give you many second chances, but it gave one to me. My family is gone, my mum…” Jimmy paused, regarding how very similar Thomas looked to his mother in the eyes. They were the same kind pale blue, “my mum is gone. And that’s why I had to come here today…” 

Could he tell her? He wondered. 

Mrs. Barrow had begged for Mr. Barrow to reconsider when he’d thrown Thomas out. By Thomas’ own admission, she and Margret had been the only two to care for Thomas in his youth. Surely that meant she was sympathetic or at least understanding to Thomas’ plight. 

To Jimmy’s plight. 

“I have… feelings… for your son.” Jimmy admitted, his voice the tiniest whisper. Mrs. Barrow’s eyes widened a fraction in recognition. 

A heartbeat later, Jimmy’s anxieties were soothed as she began to smile in earnest.   
He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. 

“I l-l-love your son.” Jimmy stuttered on the word, unable to admit it aloud to Thomas but summoning the will for his mother if only this once. Even in the dark, even with the door closed, even with her support, Jimmy was afraid. “I want you to know that. No matter what you hear, about other people and- and weddings, fiancés-“ Jimmy stuttered again, “I’m the one who truly l-l-loves-“ Jimmy paused, swallowing, “Loves him. That’s why I wanted to meet you today. That’s why I came here today.” 

Jimmy looked down at his lap, flushing. He suddenly felt like he had a fever.   
Mrs. Barrow was touching his hands, squeezing them sympathetically. 

“…Jimmy.” She murmured his name, “Thank you. Thank you for loving my son.” 

Jimmy expelled a shaky breath, nodding though he didn’t know why. He felt on the verge of shaking, as if coming down with a cold despite the morbidly hot weather. 

“I promise you, I won’t abandon him or treat him poorly.” Jimmy sniffed, wondering why it was that his tone was so flat and quiet when his emotions were so incredibly strong. “I’d sooner cut off me own fingers one by one.” Mrs. Barrow just kept stroking his fingers, “I love him, I truly do. It took me so so long to figure that out. But it’s… it’s true. It’s so true it sets me soul on fire.” 

“You’re so brave, Jimmy.” Mrs. Barrow praised him. Jimmy’s lips twitched in an unintentional smile. He hardly agreed with her but it was nice to hear, “Thomas is so terribly tired, and life has been horribly difficult for him- you must try to help him have fun. To enjoy himself more? To smile and laugh?” 

Jimmy absolutely agreed, and fortunately for Mrs. Barrow, he already had a plan. 

“Of course.” Jimmy grinned, thumbing to his chest with pride, “I’m a jazz musician. I play piano.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Barrow’s face lit up with delight at this, clearly interested to know more, “Oh how brilliant.” 

“I promise you.” Jimmy continued, “I’m going to get Thomas out of the house were we work, and I’m going to take him to London. And we’re going to go to jazz parties every night, and swing with the wildest cats, and drink and gamble… and live.” Jimmy said the word with such intent that it was a lullaby to Mrs. Barrow, who was exhausted from living a life sheltered in fear, “I promise you that, Mrs. Barrow.” 

“Just don’t gamble too much.” She warned him, ever a mother to the end though he wasn’t technically one of her brood. “It’s a fool who puts out throppins when he only has a brass farthing.” 

Jimmy smiled, “You’re right. It’s a fool.” 

In her picture, Mrs. Barrow had been beautiful and vibrant. Her vitality showed in her daughter Margret, but none of it was apparent now as she lay wilted and frail upon her pillow. She looked like one good gust of wind could send her packing, and Jimmy wondered at what a shame it was. That such a beautiful and kind woman should be made to die when so many cruel and ugly men were allowed to live. 

“I’m so sorry.” He mumbled. She shook her head. 

“Jimmy, everyone dies.” She declared; an accurate statement to be sure. “Don’t be sorry. Loving my son is the greatest thing you could ever do for me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, truly.” 

Jimmy flushed, pleased. She carried on, “I would not make Thomas any other way than the way he is. Margret, Danny, David… Nathan… they all might wish that Thomas were ‘normal’, but to me, Thomas is normal. I would change nothing about him.” 

“Neither would I.” Jimmy agreed, for Thomas was perfect to him on such a degree that it was almost impossible. A perfect pain in the ass, but perfect none the less. “I’m complete with him… but I’m afraid too, I won’t hide that from you.” 

He didn’t know what he was searching for. Compassion? Soothing? 

Mrs. Barrow was much more subdued in personality than his own mother, quiet natured with a benevolent acceptance of the world around her. Jimmy’s mother had been a firecracker, quick to speak out when she disagreed and quicker still to pipe in when she did agree and wanted to back up a friend. Mrs. Barrow seemed the type to keep her opinions to herself either way… a quality she had not passed on to either of her children. Though it pained Jimmy to admit it, he could see traces of Mr. Barrow in Thomas’ personality. His harsh exterior and his acerbic attitude were Mr. Barrow in a nutshell. What he lacked was Mr. Barrow’s sense of apathy and cruelty (for Jimmy was certain he was cruel); instead he had his mother’s mild contempt of the world. His mother’s gentle understanding of what needed to be done and the acceptance of doing it. 

“You are stronger than your fear.” Mrs. Barrow said, and it was a statement so Thomas in nature that Jimmy could not help but smile. 

He looked to the door concealing Thomas from them both, and wondered at what Mr. Barrow would say when he exited. Jimmy would have to pretend to have examined Mrs. Barrow, and didn’t rightly know what he would say. He supposed there was only one thing to do: mimic. 

“What did your doctor tell you?” Jimmy asked; Mrs. Barrow straightened herself a little better upon her pillow with a deep sigh. She closed her eyes. 

“That it’s all for naught.” She said, “That my heart is weakened by stress and fever, that I should keep to bed.” 

That would have to do. Jimmy rose from the bed, patting Mrs. Barrow’s hand fondly as he laid it back atop her stomach. She peeked open an eye, curious to see him go. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, mildly concerned. 

“To get back Thomas.” Jimmy explained. Mrs. Barrow smiled. 

Opening the door back to the kitchen, Jimmy found Thomas hunched over the kitchen table with his head in his hands and his father berating him quietly. 

“-Cryin’ on her pillow like a child- don’t you know she doesn’t have the energy for that? She can’t protect you anymore. You have to stand on your own two feet and be a man-“ 

“I know how to be a man.” Thomas mumbled, unwilling to talk louder than a whisper lest he give cause for offense. Mr. Barrow just snorted and rolled his eyes. 

If Jimmy had been a braver man, he’d have punched him in the mouth. 

Both Thomas and Mr. Barrow looked around as Jimmy exited the bedroom; Jimmy left the door open. 

“Well?” Mr. Barrow asked, crossing his arms over his chest expectantly. 

“A weakened heart.” Jimmy parroted, trying his best to sound mature and grave. He didn’t know why but he figured a doctor ought to sound like both. Clarkson was never chipper, was he? “Which I’m sure you already know.” Jimmy added with a flourish of the hand. Mr. Barrow nodded. “A lack of stress is optimal for prolonged health at this point. I would recommend that she likewise be surrounded by things that bring her pleasure. She’s requested her son back.” Jimmy gestured to Thomas with a pleasant smile. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy offered. Thomas rose from his chair at once, a look of hope alighting in his beautiful gray eyes, but Mr. Barrow was quick to gut the flame before Thomas could start smiling. 

“Don’t you go wailin’ to her and gettin’ her riled up.” Mr. Barrow warned, and Thomas fixed his expression at once so as not to offend his father as he passed “She’s got enough on her mind without you cryin’ on her pillow-“ 

“Well it’s a good thing he’s not going to be crying on her pillow then, now is it?” Jimmy sneered, unable to keep his fat mouth shut as Thomas passed through the threshold. Jimmy would have followed him, wanted to return to Mrs. Barrow’s side, but suddenly he was called back as Mr. Barrow said, “Just a moment.” 

Jimmy paused, turning. Mr. Barrow was glaring at him, “I want to talk to you.” 

Jimmy looked back over his shoulder; Thomas had grown fretfully pale, fearful of what would come next. 

“Go on… be with her.” Jimmy murmured, gesturing to the darkened bedroom beyond. 

“But-“ Thomas’ voice was weak. 

Jimmy shook his head, cutting Thomas off with a friendly smile. Thomas fell silent, head bowed. Jimmy knew the danger Thomas feared; he wasn’t a fool. Thomas left, turning into the dark so that he was enveloped in gloom as he walked over to his mother’s bedside and resumed his place perched upon the mattress. Jimmy saw him lay his head back down in her hands, and at once closed the door before Mr. Barrow could say something rude and cut it off. Thomas needed his time to heal; Jimmy would make sure he got it. 

Turning back around, Jimmy found Mr. Barrow watching with narrowed eyes, perched upon the edge of his kitchen table with a scowl. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy said, trying his best to keep that grave mature tone. 

“Where were you trained?” Mr. Barrow asked. 

Jimmy froze. “I beg your pardon?” 

_Shit shit fuck fuck-_

“Where were you trained?” Mr. Barrow repeated, and there was a cold quality to his voice now. 

Jimmy said the first thing that came to mind, thinking of how Thomas was a medic and could probably stitch Jimmy back up once Mr. Barrow was done ripping him apart. 

“I was trained in the RAMC-“ Jimmy began, but Mr. Barrow barked with conniving laughter and effectively silenced him before he could begin spinning a tale. 

“That’s a laugh-“ Mr. Barrow sneered, “your lot don’t get trained at all. Killed my boy; don’t know why you didn’t kill that one and let the other one live.” Mr. Barrow gestured to the door behind Jimmy. To Thomas. 

Jimmy felt a new kind of anger beginning to boil inside of him. Something hot and ugly that he could not ignore nor filter through the voice of a ‘grave mature doctor’ or whatever the hell else he was pretending to be. He knew his emotions were showing upon his face. Knew he was close to snapping. 

“You are a fool if you would willingly wish your own child dead.” Jimmy snapped. Mr. Barrow’s eyes flashed dangerously, “I had to write letter after letter to praying parent and you stand here asking for the other to die?” 

This was hardly the truth; Jimmy was shit at writing letters to anyone at all and if he’d been put in charge of it chances were parents wouldn’t even know their children were dead till four months later. 

“You’re lucky your son survived the war. Incredibly lucky.” Jimmy declared, “He’s a hard worker, driven, and ambitious. He’s clever and kind- and whats more-!” Jimmy added with a finger in the air, “He wants to do right by you. Can you say that about most people’s sons?” 

Mr. Barrow tilted his head to the side unimpressed. 

“How do you know my son?” Mr. Barrow asked, and while his tone was still calm it had taken a decidedly dangerous quality to it. 

They were getting close to thin ice. 

“We were medics together in the army.” Jimmy said, trying to sound unfazed. “Why?” 

“Is that what you were?” Mr. Barrow simpered. Jimmy pursed his lips. 

He decided to change the subject before Mr. Barrow got any cleverer. “You just remember that there are plenty men with their sons dead, Mr. Barrow. They’d give anything to make Thomas theirs. Anything.” 

Mr. Barrow as still looking at him with that dangerous cold gleam. It seemed he wouldn’t be going along with the subject change: “And I suppose you and Thomas are… right chums?” He asked. “Best friends? Is that it?” 

Jimmy didn’t answer, his heart picking up a beat in his chest. Mr. Barrow just continued to nod. 

He wrenched off of the kitchen table, storming over to Jimmy, and Jimmy raised his fists at once thinking he’d have to punch Mr. Barrow in the mouth to get out alive- he was shocked when Mr. Barrow instead reached around Jimmy to grab the door to the bedroom and push it open with unneeded force. 

~*~

There was no telling what his father wanted with Jimmy, but Thomas was too exhausted and needy to put up much of a fight when Jimmy closed the door behind him. Consumed in the darkness and warmth of his mother’s bedroom again, Thomas collapsed back upon her bed and immediately sought out her cool soft hands. She resumed stroking at his face and hair, petting him fondly as he inhaled the scent of her skin- a lavender soap tinged with the salt of a cold sweat. 

“My darling…” His mother whispered. “My darling.” 

But she began to cough, first a tickle that transformed into something much stronger and frightening sounding. Thomas sat up at once, spotting a moist towel upon the edge of the bedside table that needed to be rewetted. It would have to do as he folded it hastily to press it to his mother’s forehead and neck. It seemed to sooth her; she smiled absently, closing her eyes as Thomas tended to her. 

“Let me take you to a hospital.” Thomas begged, thinking of Clarkson and his wait staff. He had money, he could provide for his mother. He could take her from this house- he’d carry her the whole way himself. He didn’t care for the financial or physical strain. He wanted to save her from the shadows- but she was shaking her head. 

“No.” She said, her eyes still closed. 

“Let me get you to a better doctor-“ Thomas beseeched, “We can find a way, mum-“ 

“Thomas.” She said his name quite firmly, her eyes fluttering open to fix him with a stern expression. It had been years since she’d looked at him in such a way; the last time she’d scowled at him he’d been arguing with Margret at the kitchen table over who could have the last piece of pudding. 

(Thomas still contended that it ought to have been his because he was the one who had an actual paying job where as all Margret did was go to school and sew. Margret had gotten the piece when she’d pretended to start crying). 

“It’s no use.” She murmured, shaking her head as Thomas continued to sponge at her forehead and neck. He wiped up every trace of sweat, “My heart is too tired. It’s just given out, love. That’s the way things are.” 

Thomas bowed his head, bitter and wishing he could condemn god for taking such a wonderful and gentle woman from the world when people like O’Brien were allowed to walk it free and well. His mother squeezed his hand, and Thomas looked back around, braving a fake smile for her sake. 

“My what a man this Jimmy Kent is…” His mother praised. “A jazz musician.” 

“Yeah.” Thomas blinked the wetness back from his eyes. 

“And a gambler?” His mother added with a touch of disapproval in his voice. 

“We all put a chip in at the table, mum.” Thomas reminded her. His mother shook her head upon the pillow. 

“People don’t gamble.” She asked him; Thomas decided he would bet much more carefully from then on if only for her sake. “Your father is so thrilled to have you back, you know.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes at this. What a load of crock. 

“Don’t pretend mum.” Thomas muttered. 

“Thomas, you should have seen his face when he opened your telegram.” His mother whispered, her eyes beginning to glimmer with tears. 

_Oh christ don’t you dare cry_ , Thomas thought in fear, _If you cry I’ll lose it_. 

“He was so happy.” His mother declared, her voice becoming throaty and tight as she smiled blissfully, “He looked up and he said to me ‘It’s a miracle’. Coming from a man who doesn’t believe in miracles, that says a lot. He told me that you’re getting married? But that must have been a lie, yes?” She laughed softly, “A lie to get back to me, how clever you are-“ 

Thomas’ smile fell. His mother’s fell as well. 

“… What?” His mother whispered, for the first time looking truly shocked. “Oh my love, oh no- why?” 

She reached up, taking Thomas’ face her hands. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” She demanded, emotion making her voice warble. 

“I had to-“ Thomas whispered, continuing to sponge at her forehead. 

“No- No I won’t hear of this-“ His mother shook her head adamantly, dropping a hand to wave it in front of his face and silence him, “You’ll stop this wedding at once.” 

“Mother I have to marry her- I have to.” Thomas begged her, “If I don’t marry her I lose my ticket into the house- I have to think of you. Of Margret and the boys-“ 

“No, Thomas.” His mother’s voice was still strong despite her emotions running rampant, “You are the prize. You are the star. You think of yourself, and live your life accordingly. You live for _yourself_ , Thomas. Jimmy will support you.” 

“But…” Thomas whispered, thinking of the promises he’d made that Daisy would never be sorry even if the absolute worst were to occur. John had once asked him what he thought the absolute worst was. 

Maybe now, Thomas knew. 

Suddenly the door was forced open, and his father stood glaring upon the threshold. Thomas jumped, shocked at how forcefully the door opened, and was even more afraid when he saw Jimmy just beyond with his fists raised. Jimmy dropped his fists at once, looked sheepish, but the damage was still done. Thomas pressed the folded towel upon his mother’s forehead even as she shook; her brow furrowed fretfully. 

“I think that’s enough for the day, Thomas.” His father’s voice was cold, foreboding, “Let her rest.” 

But Thomas didn’t want to leave, and looked back down to where his mother was still moaning upon the pillow. 

“Please, Thomas.” His mother begged, “Call off the wedding, for heavens sake.” 

“Alice, you’re tired.” His father reprimanded her, stepping into the gloom to open her bed curtains a little better. His scowl always softened when he was looking upon her. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

But his mother just whimpered, and Thomas at once petted her brow trying to sooth her. If she started crying he was going to absolutely lose it in front of his father. 

“Don’t cry, mum.” Thomas begged, his own voice now throaty with emotion. His eyes were burning, “Please don’t cry. I’ll do anything please don’t cry-!” 

His mother sniffed, a few tears slipping from the corners of her crinkled eyes. Thomas wiped them away at once, desperately trying to control how his chin quivered at the same time. He couldn’t cry in front of his parents- he couldn’t! 

“Call off this ghastly wedding.” She begged him; a few more tears slipped. “You don’t love 

“Right, that’s enough Alice-“ His father warned, his tone firm. 

“Nathan-!” She protested. 

“Alice, stop.” His father snapped. His mother whimpered, his eyes screwed up. “You’re tired, you don’t know what you’re saying.” At this, his father walked around the bed and gently snuffed out the meagre candlelight that illuminated the room. They were plunged into absolute dark, so that the only light came from the kitchen doorway, barely illuminating his mother’s face in the dark. “You need to sleep.” 

“But-“ 

“Thomas get up. Move.” His father grabbed him by the elbow and forced him up off the bed even as his mother whimpered again. Thomas protested. 

“But she needs me-!” Thomas begged. “Please, da’-“ Thomas tried to reach back around if only to hold to his mother’s hand again. His father drug him forcibly to the door. 

“Don’t- Nathan- stop dragging him-“ 

“I’m not dragging him, he’s the one resisting-“ 

“Would you just let go of me, I’m not four!” 

“Then quit acting like your four and leave a feeble old woman alone!” 

“I’m not old, Nathan.” 

If they weren’t so utterly warped in their insanities, they’d actually make a funny troupe act. By the time that his father got him over the threshold, he shut the door at once and shoved Thomas off, glaring at him while Thomas seethed and clutched at his hair. 

“She needs me!” Thomas snapped, “Let me tend to her! You let Margie tend to her why not me!” 

“Because Margie is a woman and a mother and she knows your mother’s habits.” His father warned him. Jimmy snorted at his, rolling his eyes. “Your mother doesn’t know what she’s saying when she talks to you, you realize that?” 

“She seemed perfectly lucid to me.” Thomas declared. 

“You’re hardly a fountain of medical wisdom, and I know my own wife.” His father would not be swayed. 

“Yeah but do you know yourself, that’s the real question.” Jimmy muttered nastily under his breath. His father shot Jimmy an icy glare. 

“Jimmy-“ Thomas tried to keep the peace, only too late realizing the error of using such a familiar name with a man that was only supposed to be a friendly doctor’s assistant. His father’s glare became quite cold. 

“Oh so he’s Jimmy now, is he?” His father sneered, “What happened to Doctor Kent? Or is he even a doctor at all?” He gestured to Jimmy is disdain. Jimmy’s lips pursed into a thin white line. 

“I’ve already told you, we’re chums.” Jimmy warned his father. “All my chums call me Jimmy, there’s nothing ‘funny’ about it.” 

But the word ‘funny’ was a dangerous one, and his father had clearly had enough. 

“I think that’s enough doctor’s visit for one day.” His father snapped. “You can clear off and next time you come, bring your fiancé. Or don’t come at all!” He warned aggressively. 

Jimmy threw up his hands, bitter and absolutely through with the madness of the Barrow household. 

“You’re a crotchety old man, y’know that?” Jimmy snapped. Thomas flushed, grabbing Jimmy by the elbow and dragging him towards the living room and the stair case beyond. Before Thomas had been ready to fight it out and try to get back in to see his mother. Now Thomas was just eager to get Jimmy out of the house before he got himself killed. 

“And you can keep _him_ off our stoop as well!” His father snarled, coming out of the kitchen after them to chastise them all the while. “That’s the worst doctor the RAMC ever spat out, including you-!” 

“Oh shove it-!” Jimmy howled as Thomas yanked him down the staircase, “I was the best doctor in me whole platoon! Highly ranked I was! I didn’t shed me years for king and country to get chirped at by a fuddy duddy old clockmaker!” 

Thomas practically carried Jimmy the rest of the way out of the shop, desperate to get them out before his father followed after them and cleaved both of their heads off. The few customers on the sales floor were stunned as Thomas dragged Jimmy past them, no doubt catching wind of Jimmy’s antics when he’d shouted at the top of his voice. 

As soon as they were back out on the street, Thomas closed the door to the shop and leaned haggardly against it. 

He exhaled slowly, his heart still pounding in his chest. 

Jimmy yanked his newscap off, rubbing at his brow bitterly. He smacked his cap over his knee, denting it in the middle as he fixed it back over his head and drummed his fingers at the door against their backs. He pursed his lips, twitching them from side to side. 

Jimmy bit out. “That went well.” 

 

They took the 3 o’clock train back to Grantham, arriving just after six and taking the back road to Downton to avoid any unfriendly faces from the village lot. Staggering and weaving to and fro, they looked punch drunk though really they were just exhausted from a day on the lam. 

“God we look awful.” Jimmy muttered to the dirt. A pebble skittered loose beneath his step as he trudged along.

“Mm.” Thomas agreed, casting a glance to the moon as it slowly rose overhead and began to poke through the lowest hanging branches of the trees, “Thank god it’s dusk. No one can see us.” 

“Sorry if I got wound up back there.” Jimmy hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Stockport. “Yer old man’s a piece of shit.” 

“I quite agree.” Thomas muttered, and he fished a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. His fingers were still trembling as he remarked, “Thought he was going to kill you Jimmy. Y’can’t talk like that to him.” 

“I’m not scared of him.” 

“You should be.” 

But Jimmy didn’t care. He reached over to pluck Thomas’ lighter from his hands, pausing them in their travel to help Thomas light up a cigarette. His fingers ghosted over Thomas’ knuckles just a second too long to be natural, and Thomas had to pull back at once so as to keep his composure. Jimmy looked slightly hurt, and Thomas raked a hand through his hair as he fished for something decent to say. He offered Jimmy his cigarette in a meagre offer of peace. Jimmy accepted it, taking a small drag as Thomas explained: 

“You don’t know what it does to me. When you touch me.” 

“I’m not tryin’ to upset you, Thomas.” Jimmy replied as he passed back the cigarette. They resumed walking, “Truly, I’m not.” 

Thomas wished he knew what to say to that, shrugging as he stumbled along. 

“Doesn’t matter.” He mumbled, more to himself than Jimmy, “Nothin’ matters anymore. Just gotta keep going-“ 

But this annoyed Jimmy. 

“I’m curious, where are you goin’ to? Eh?” Jimmy spoke up, dryly as he took back the cigarette, “Hell? I mean, you keep walking you’re gonna fall in front of a train or off a cliff or-“ 

“Well what do you expect me to do?” Thomas demanded, feeling well and truly pinned as Jimmy whined, “Give up? Tell Daisy I can’t marry her even though she’s my ticket back into my house, back to my dying mother, back to my twin sister and her boys, my namesake included? Even though she’s in love with me, and good to me, and a woman?” 

“Don’t you think that his nonsense has gone on long enough, Thomas?” Jimmy demanded. He didn’t pass the cigarette back, instead chucking it off to the side though they’d hardly begun smoking it. They were on the verge of arguing now, the gloom of night settling in physically and mentally upon their conversation. 

“Nonsense?” Thomas parroted, offended. Did Jimmy consider this a game?

“You don’t love her. You love me.” Jimmy snapped. Thomas scoffed, a wave of bitterness overtaking him for how right Jimmy was. 

“You seem very confident in this.” Thomas sneered, wishing his could be more vengeful against the boy that had already broken his heart several times, “How wonderful it must be to wake up and be so confident about the world around you-“ 

“You don’t have to be confident about the facts, Thomas!” Jimmy reminded him, and once again Thomas cursed for how right Jimmy was, “I know you love me. Why are we even fighting about this, over Daisy? Daisy!” Jimmy shouted the name like it was a curse. “Daisy who can’t let go of a torch for Alfred-!” 

“Oh would you stop harping on about Alfred.” Thomas groaned. “He wasn’t near as bad as you thought-“ 

“You know he called the police on you-!” 

“He was confused.” 

“Uh, no, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t! He was the only one of the three of us who wasn’t confused!” Jimmy corrected him, his voice growing quite hot. They’d stopped walking, the pair of them getting staggering to a halt as they turned to face off against one another on a hot dark road. 

They might as well be walking to hell for the way they were going. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Thomas demanded. They were bordering dangerously close on the edge of a subject Thomas knew Jimmy wouldn’t want to talk about. 

But they had to talk about it if Jimmy had been serious before in that wine cellar. 

“It means that I was having an identity crisis.” Jimmy declared, his cheeks flushing, “Only that- I realized I was mistaken about my original conceptions of what we were. Are. Have. Feel.” 

And still, Jimmy would not say it. Thomas shook his head, rubbing his brow as he turned to stumble along. His gate was slow, ambling really. 

“You’re unbelievable, Jimmy.” Thomas muttered, “How long have you strung me along, and still you won’t just come out and say it-“ 

“Well I don’t mean to string you along!” Jimmy urged, and though his tone was quite sincere he still wasn’t saying what needed to be said. He’d sworn he could give Thomas what he wanted, but Thomas found himself unsure now. It was one thing if Jimmy found he could be attracted to the opposite sex from time to time, Thomas had a hankering suspicion most men had but simply refused to speak on it. But if Jimmy didn’t have an attraction to Thomas, then it still left him in the dark. Even then, Thomas wasn’t looking for a mere attraction. He needed more, wanted more, and if Jimmy said he could give him everything…? 

Thomas had run out of time. He had no more room to beat around the bush when he was about to walk Daisy Mason down the aisle. 

“Thomas I’m not trying to wipe away the past, I just want a… a.. reconciliation!” Jimmy declared, sounding optimistic at the prospect. Thomas rolled his eyes as he stomped along. 

“A reconciliation well aren’t you just the one.” Thomas muttered. 

“I realize my mistake, Thomas! I know what it was!” 

“Then what was it.” 

“I should have never entered Anstruther’s room that night-!” Jimmy explained. Thomas scoffed aloud. 

_No Jimmy, that was not where you got it wrong_. 

“Oh dear god, here we go.” Thomas snapped, certain Jimmy was about to go on a long and pointless rant. 

“I should have stayed in the hallway with you. I that’s where I went wrong, because if I hadn’t gone in that room, I wouldn’t have lost my position and you wouldn’t have gone to thera-“ 

But Thomas had had enough. 

“Stop it!” Thomas shouted, well and truly angry now at Jimmy’s blatant attempts to avoid the crux of the matter. The fact was, Anstruther mattered very little in light of their present situation. Thomas was certain that Jimmy had slept with other women in London— that didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the constant giving he had to do with very little in return. When it came to Jimmy, Thomas could be very sympathetic and understanding— could easily layer Jimmy in love with no hope of love in return… but it became a very draining process and Thomas was already running on empty. Daisy had sucked the hope out of him. His father had sucked the fight— and now Jimmy was sucking at his love. Love Thomas desperately needed for his own self. 

Jimmy was shocked that Thomas had shouted at him. Unfortunately his night was only going to get worse. 

“For heavens sake just stop it Jimmy! Just stop!” Thomas snapped, hands up as if Jimmy were a pesky gnat buzzing around in his ear that he had to shake off; Jimmy looked scandalized with wide aubergine eyes, “You are a psychotic merry-go-round I cannot get off of!” 

Jimmy flushed; Thomas tried to reign in his self control, tried to be understanding… but it was useless. It was well and truly useless. 

He was pinned, trapped in a box against his own will; Jimmy opened the lid and offered him freedom but he didn’t realize how high up Thomas had to climb. 

Thomas stopped and spun on the spot, cheeks hot with color; to his credit Jimmy did not try to dodge nor hide. 

“You come back here and I don’t know why, you make trouble and I don’t know why, you claim to have some kind of feeling towards me and I don’t know why-“ Thomas seized, blowing off steam, “God forbid you actually say you love me!” 

Jimmy looked down, but Thomas couldn’t stop, “God forbid anyone say they love me!” 

And it well and truly hurt in his heart. 

“Thomas,” Jimmy murmured with his eyes locked on his scuffed shoes, “I do-“ 

“Then say it!” Thomas shouted, and it was too late that he heard the desperation in his own voice, “Say you love me!” 

A moment of silence passed; Jimmy rubbed his brow with his pointer and middle finger, thumb massaging at his temple as he let out the tiniest disappointed sigh. 

Thomas’ heart bleated with pain, as Jimmy’s silence confirmed his worst fears… That despite Jimmy recognizing he was ‘like’ Thomas (if he really was), Jimmy still did not have the gumption within him to care for Thomas. And why should he really? Why should anyone love Thomas when he was so utterly despicable? Even his own father despised him. 

Thomas looked away, blinking back tears. 

“…You’re a coward, Jimmy Kent.” Thomas hardly meant it, but it helped him to avoid the pain that squeezed so emphatically about his own bruised heart. “You ran away to Ivy, to Anstruther, to London… now you want to run away and hide in my life. In my problems. You want to hide inside of me, but there’s nothing in here Jimmy-“ and at this Thomas touched his breast repeatedly, jabbing his fingers at his aching cold heart. 

Jimmy gaped desperately as Thomas became more and more emotional, it was as if he was scrambling at straws for what to say. 

“I’m hollow,” Thomas bleated out in a frail voice. Jimmy shook his head, “Because no one loves me, I am loveless.” And he said the final word with all the bitterness he could assign. The curse of his fate: loveless. 

“No-“ Jimmy wouldn’t hear it, still shaking his head. Remarkable how he could now look Thomas in the eyes. 

“You don’t love me.” Thomas hissed. It was not a question. 

“No.” Jimmy shook his head, and Thomas’ heart throbbed violently until Jimmy carried on, “No, I do, and I can say it-“ 

But Thomas wouldn’t live in such delusions. Not when they’d brought him nothing but misery and consigned him to electrotherapy. To Daisy. 

“Oh really then, why won’t you say it?” Thomas flapped an arm fruitlessly to his side, “Mood not strike you fancifully enough?” 

Jimmy flushed again, embarrassed at being called out as Thomas waited with trembling breath, “Its’- I- it’s complicated- we’re in public-“ 

Thomas would have none of it. 

“I have some really bad news for you, Jimmy.” Thomas hissed, hunching forward a little as he took a step in Jimmy’s direction and pointed vigorously at the ground, “We are always going to be in public, we are always going to be in danger— you have to be brave.” And at this he pointed to Jimmy instead with all the same vigor that he’d used at the ground, “You have to accept that someone may see, someone may find out, and use it against us and hang us for it.” 

Jimmy had gone pale now. Perhaps he was beginning to understand. 

“But that our love,” Thomas brought his hands to his chest, once again letting trembling fingertips touch his aching heart, “if we even shared a love, our love would be worth it. Don’t you see?” He asked, pausing for effect in the prayer that the realization would set in with Jimmy. 

“…That night…” Thomas croaked.   
He need not say anymore. Jimmy knew exactly to what he was referring to. 

“I would have done _anything_ for you.” Thomas felt almost ashamed to admit it, for how horribly painful the truth was. To know he’d have crossed an ocean for Jimmy when Jimmy would not even cross a puddle for him. “Because you are worth everything to me.” Thomas hissed. 

Jimmy brought a hand up to his neck; perhaps it was just as flushed as his face. He rubbed at his neck, pursing his fine lips as he shook his head. He looked almost defeated, which was hardly fair when Jimmy wasn’t the one being strung through the dirt just to hang onto the shreds of his dignity. 

Thomas clapped a hand over his mouth to hide the quivering of his chin. It took him a second to compose himself, to remember that it was not Jimmy’s fault he did not love Thomas back. 

He slowly dropped his hand. 

“In London, having the time of your life…” He could not help but whisper, thinking aloud, “Enjoying yourself, Jack Ross and the Criterion… champagne heaven. Meanwhile I am here… dying. For love of you. Just… waiting on a letter.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, and when he felt tears slip from their corners he hastily wiped at his face. He would not cry at this. 

He would not cry in front of Jimmy. 

“Waiting on one tiny letter to tell me that you were alive, that you were happy-“ Thomas whispered, “That you were _safe_. That you cared.” 

He opened his eyes again, and found Jimmy looking at him with an apologetic and weak expression; as if he were a child being scolded. It jilted him. 

“You don’t love me, Jimmy-“ Thomas put both his hands on his hips, shaking his head vigorously at Jimmy’s continuous denial. This wasn’t love, this shame and scolding. Jimmy was just saying it because he thought it would make the situation better- that was all. “So maybe you might look at a man as well as a woman but what does it matter to me, what does it do for me, when you don’t love me, when you think I’m foul-“ 

“Stop.” Jimmy snapped.   
His voice was quite firm. 

Thomas did not know whether he should continue or fall silent. Part of him wanted to carry on, wanted to purge himself of the pain in his soul, but another part of him (small and weak) warned that he ought to do as Jimmy bade. Ought to see what Jimmy had to say, if only just to know. 

How was Jimmy to know his opinion was worth its weight in gold to Thomas? 

Jimmy pointed a finger in Thomas’ face, tense and accusatory. There was an incredible courage in his eyes now, a strange burning fire that Thomas could not help but find so endearing even when it was being used against him. 

Thomas waited for the hammer to fall, and as Jimmy opened his mouth he held his breath in fear. 

“I do not think you are foul, I have never thought you were foul-“ but as Thomas opened his mouth, Jimmy snapped, “No! You let me finish.” 

Thomas automatically snapped his mouth shut, cheeks burning from Jimmy’s chastising. His tone was hard, but it wasn’t cold… it was oddly affectionate and it stirred something powerful within Thomas’ breast. 

“I think the world is foul, and sick, and vile,” Jimmy corrected, gesturing at Thomas up and down, “For… for lookin’ at a creature as beautiful and sublime as you and tellin’ you you’re nothin’ but dirt. Your a god damn beauty, Thomas— I’m not talkin’ about how you look— I mean,” Jimmy flustered, “I am. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous—“ 

Thomas’ cheeks were burning; he thought he might erupt into flame at any moment, “Stop.” Thomas mumbled embarrassed, for surely Jimmy meant none of this, “I’m not a kitchen maid you can woo—“ 

The word set Jimmy off like a bomb. 

“I don’t give a hang about kitchen maids!” Jimmy yelled, and Thomas jumped at the vigor in his voice; Jimmy threw a hand out, harsh and cutting, “Sod the whole lot of em! First Ivy, now Daisy?! Fuck—kitchen—maids!” and with each word he kicked hard at the dirt. An embedded rock was set free and tumbled down the dirt road. 

Thomas didn’t know what to say; he gaped at Jimmy, speechless at his lashing anger.   
But Jimmy still had more to say. 

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Thomas.” Jimmy said, and he pointed at Thomas right between the eyes, his tone filled with such firm passion that it rocked Thomas to his core. He feared to imagine that Jimmy actually meant what he was saying. That it might be true— his disbelief must have shown in his face, for Jimmy took a step closer to him so that he had to drop his hand lest he poke Thomas in the nose. 

His face was dead set, passionate and in pursuit. 

“Let me fill you in on somethin’ cause this is real important.” Jimmy murmured, his voice deadly soft. Thomas’ heart clamored in his chest. “My life up until now has sucked an egg! My family thought I was as queer as Oscar Wilde, and they were right I guess! My only pleasure in life- and I’ll be honest with you- came from puttin’ on dresses me mum made for other people’s daughters.” 

_What?_

Thomas cocked his head to the side, unsure if he’d heard right. Jimmy nodded emphatically, looking as if he’d just gotten a weight off his chest. 

“There! Now you know me secret.” Jimmy declared. 

Did… Did Jimmy just say he liked to put on dresses? Thomas was unsure. Maybe he’d had a seizure and hallucinated that little blurb. 

“She made me one of emerald velvet and it were beautiful- and I’d dance around in it, and be so happy.” Jimmy shimmied his shoulders, but it was in clear sarcasm. He seemed incredibly embarrassed, and Thomas couldn’t blame him. 

He couldn’t say why though but.. he was starting to smile. He was almost amazed.   
Jimmy dancing in dresses, who’d have thought? 

“And then she died, and obviously I wasn’t puttin’ on dresses anymore… so… my life sucked.” Jimmy huffed, “I had to please everyone, be the golden boy- look cute, act cute, talk cute, is me hair coifed, it better be!” Jimmy shouted sarcastically. Thomas could not help but snort. “Cause if it’s not no one’s gonna give a hang about me!” 

But then he paused, his voice growing somber in his reflection. 

“… And then you come along.” Jimmy said. 

For a moment there was a silence between them, affectionate and tender as they cradled it with their memories. Of a day dawning bright and clear as Jimmy waltzed into the servant’s hall of Downton Abbey… of the very first time Thomas had clapped eyes on the man who would ruin his life. 

“And… and at first I think… I think you just like me hair.” Jimmy admitted, a little ashamed. 

_Well I do like your hair_ , Thomas could not help but think. 

“But then… then I… with everything and how it happened at that fair, I realized.. y’don’t get your teeth knocked in over hair. It’s gotta mean somethin’.” Jimmy carried on, calmly. 

Thomas nodded. _No I certainly did not take that beating for your hair, you silly beautiful man._

“ I realized you cared about me. Actually cared, and you were the first person to ever care about since me mum. And…” Jimmy flushed again, growing embarrassed once more, “and at first I just liked bein’ special again. but then… Then you started bein special to me too.” 

_Oh no_ , Thomas thought in fear as his heart began to bleat again in pain, _Don’t say it Jimmy. Don’t say it. I’ll die if you say it._

“And I didn’t know what it meant cause I didn’t wanna face it. Cause I were scared of how much I needed you. I thought I needed you to feel special, but that wasn’t it. Cause I were fine on my own in London.” Jimmy shrugged, “… Cept that I missed you, and I didn’t know why.” 

But then Jimmy shook his head, and what came next Thomas would never forget.   
What came next broke Thomas, body and soul. 

“No. I do know why.” Jimmy corrected himself.   
He looked Thomas dead in the eye, unafraid. 

“I missed you cause I love you.” Jimmy said. 

A tiny bleating noise escaped Thomas’ mouth like a mouse being stepped on. There was a buzzing in his ears as if bees were filling his skull. 

“I love you and I don’t even know if I can fully explain why.” Jimmy flushed, but he was set and determined now to see it through. 

Thomas trembled, wanting chill aching in his bones. 

“I love you because… your heart is so… so…” Jimmy tried for the words, and instead simply settled for, “Strong.” 

Thomas could barely breath. So much for having a ‘strong heart’. 

“Like a… like a drum.” Jimmy mused, “Like a bass drum. And your… your eyes have these little green flecks in ‘em. It reminds me of that emerald dress, y’know? Cause when I’m with you, you make me feel like I’m wearin’ that dress gain. Like I’m dancing.” 

Thomas was truly speechless, mouth open and gaping to the cool night air. How odd that Jimmy was not flushing now, did not seem to be as nearly as embarrassed as before. 

“You make jazz when you talk.” Jimmy mused, “You breath, and I feel my lungs expand.” 

Thomas put a hand over his mouth to hide the quivering of his chin; he hastily wiped his eyes again, utterly shocked to realize that for the first time in his life he was crying out of happiness and not pain. He was smiling, and could not stop. 

“You open your mouth, and I hear my own voice.” Jimmy said, soft and soothing, “You cry, and I feel pain. Like a knife. Right here.” And at this Jimmy pointed to his rib cage just below his heart. 

“…Take the knife out, Thomas.” Jimmy beckoned, “Take it out, and set me free.” 

Thomas blinked rapidly, wiping his face again and again and more tears fell. He wondered if this moment was some vivid hallucination brought on by stress, or if it was real. If it was real, then it meant Jimmy loved him. If Jimmy loved him, then it meant there was a god, and that he had not been forsaken. That his life was not bound for cruelty and pain. That the future was open to every possibility and every hope. That the sun would rise again. 

The sun would rise, and Thomas would rise with it— the knowledge that he might actually be happy scared him more than the knowledge he might not. Loneliness he could handle; anguish he could understand. Joy? Delight? He was as foreign to those concepts as the depths of Braille. 

And yet… despite his lack of knowledge on the subject of happiness, his heart ached for it. Rejoiced. 

“…How?” Thomas whispered the word, unsure if he wanted to know the answer but desperate for the joy it would bring. The light. The dawn. The love. 

Thomas jumped, startled as Jimmy brought both his hands up to cup Thomas’ soaking cheeks. He wiped his thumbs, so hot and firm, against his high cheek bones; the heat of his affection instantly dried the dampness of Thomas’ fear. 

“Y’stop cryin’,” Jimmy ordered, with deepest affection, “And y’kiss me. You git.” 

_I can do that_. Thomas thought dumbly.   
And so he did. 

Terrified but delighted, unable to fully comprehend his turn in fortune and fate even as it occurred, Thomas allowed Jimmy to guide his head down with his steady grip. 

Allowed their noses to collide and slide.   
Allowed their lips to meet. 

The sweetness of the flesh beneath his own, the sheer joy of the moment was a euphoric orgasm for Thomas. All that he’d ever wanted, all that he’d ever needed, finally within his grasp— and yet he didn’t hassle it. Didn’t hurry it. Couldn’t. Something within his being demanded that he go slow, demanded that he savor. Part of him wondered if this was some illustrated fantasy that he’d conjured to deal with the pain. Something he’d wake up from to find Daisy kissing him instead again. He saw nothing, eyes closed to let his lashes dance over the mound of Jimmy’s plump cheek. The steady pounding of his own heart seemed to cover up the soft swishing noise of a night’s breeze tussling with the branches overhead. The smell of peppermint overwhelmed him, a scent he would forever more associate with Jimmy and his beauty. Jimmy pressed against him created the softest friction as their vests scraped together- as Thomas’ buttons clicked against Jimmy’s, and Jimmy’s hands cupped Thomas’ drying cheeks. Thomas could not help himself— he slid his hands slowly upon Jimmy’s waist until he’d come fully around Jimmy’s back, and as one hand slid up to cup between Jimmy’s shoulder blades, another slowly sank down till it rested comfortably atop the very beginning curve of his firm buttocks. 

Jimmy’s lips were soft and molding, warm and sweet- it was fucking euphoric. Though it was hardly settled, hardly something a first kiss should ever include, Thomas felt Jimmy open his mouth is a strange gasping response to Thomas’ hands drawing him in so close. He ought to stop, ought to give Jimmy five minutes to breath, or speak, or explain himself or something- 

But Thomas could not stop, did not want to stop. Did not want to wake up to Daisy kissing him instead. 

And suddenly it was _Jimmy’s_ tongue in his mouth. The taste of Jimmy invading him so personally that Thomas suddenly forgot to breath himself as his jaw became slack and his hand slipped from Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy’s hands were stilling cupping him hard by the face, still kissing him determinedly, and as his tongue plundered Thomas’ mouth, Thomas could not help but think — _Holy shit, there really is a god_. 

Thomas almost blacked out from lack of oxygen, and suddenly found himself gagging against Jimmy’s kiss, shaking in Jimmy’s arms as he desperately sucked in a breath. Face pressed against Jimmy’s own, nose sliding next to Jimmy’s, Thomas panted in Jimmy’s own hair and with every breath drew more life into his lungs, into his soul. 

“I’m in too deep, Jimmy.” Thomas blubbered as Jimmy’s hands crowded his neck and temples- stroked back his hair and clutched at his collar, “I can’t back out. I can’t stop now. I can’t do this to Daisy- you know I can’t. You know I’m in too deep so stop trying to save me!” 

“I will never stop trying to save you.” Jimmy hissed, and there was true adoration as well as determination in his voice now, a fierce protective love, “I am going to fight to get you out every day until you’re free-“ 

“I can’t hurt her,” Thomas said, “I won’t cause her pain, not after everything-“ 

“Fuck her, damnit!” Jimmy snarled, and despite Thomas’ own words he had to admit it was a very endearing prospect. Just to throw Daisy over and run like hell. “If she knew how you felt she’d throw you over in a heart beat, so stop… please… Tell her it’s over-“ 

“I can’t.” Thomas though of his mother, dying in her bed. Without Daisy he’d lose access to the house. To her. 

“Tell her it’s-“ 

“I can’t!” Thomas wailed, and he grabbed Jimmy by the upper arms to shake him a little in a tight grip. Jimmy just kept brushing him off, just kept bringing his hands up to Thomas’ face to stroke his hair and cup his cheeks. He wouldn’t be put off or shrugged aside. His aubergine eyes gleamed with an intense passion that Thomas had only ever seen before during a hard card game or a wild round with Alfred. 

“I can’t Jimmy…” Thomas mumbled, and it was with deepest shame that he pronounced his fate to the man he loved, “It’s done. I can’t. I can’t.” 

He touched Jimmy’s cheek with his nose, kissed the flushed skin there, just at the corner of Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy sought his lips again, but the skin only danced as Thomas whispered, “I can’t ruin her life. I can’t do that to my nephews, to my father and mother, to my sister- I can’t-“ against the flesh of Jimmy’s bottom lip. 

“So you’re going to live your life for everyone but yourself?” Jimmy murmured sweetly, his lips moving across Thomas’s face as he spoke. “What about me, Thomas? Don’t I matter-?” 

“You matter more than anything else in the world-“ Thomas said in a heated rush, and at once he took Jimmy into his arms so that there could be no questioning, no fear in Jimmy’s mind that he was anything less than extraordinary to Thomas. Crushed against his chest, Thomas wondered if Jimmy would ever be able to fully grasp just how truly important he was to Thomas. It would become his mission in live, Thomas resolved, to make sure Jimmy found out. 

“If we were to be caught-“ Thomas whispered into Jimmy’s ear, “If we were to go to prison or god save us a mental institution… I couldn’t bear that Jimmy. To- to see you in chains. I’d sooner die.” 

An ugly unbidden image swam past his eyes: of Jimmy in a straight jacket thrashing madly and screaming Thomas’ name, alone and forgotten in a dirty padded cell while Thomas sat rotting in a molding and frozen prison cell. Thomas shuddered. 

“Oh my darling, I’d die…” Thomas mumbled into Jimmy’s hair. Jimmy’s grip tightened upon his collar, like Jimmy meant to forcibly rope him down. 

“You say I matter,” Jimmy whispered against his chest, eyes screwed up in frustration even as he nuzzled against Thomas’ collarbone. “But you won’t say the words-“ 

“I love you.” Thomas said at once. 

He’d longed to say them for so long that they all but burst from his chest. The rest that tumbled out was just a stream, a monologue that had been dammed up inside of him for so long that it practically had cobwebs hanging around its edges. 

“I love you, not her.” Thomas said with such whole honesty that the words burned in his throat as he croaked them into Jimmy’s hair. “I love you. I love you but I’m marrying her- and I hate myself for it. Because I want to marry you.” 

He shook his head, Jimmy’s hair warming beneath the skin of his cheek, “I want to marry you in the woods, at sunset, when the light turns your eyes purple.” 

Jimmy looked up, and Thomas moved his cheek according so that they could gaze at one another. There was the sweetest blush creeping across Jimmy’s beautiful cheeks, but his eyes twinkled as he stroked at Thomas’ collar with his thumbs. 

“Can’t we marry in a jazz hall instead?” Jimmy asked. Thomas’ heart leapt in joy at the prospect, “I like dancin’.” 

_My god_ , Thomas thought, _You are a treasure_. 

“My god… You are a treasure.” Thomas spoke his thoughts aloud, unable to keep them in. Jimmy stood on tip toe again, shifting up in Thomas’ embrace. When their lips met again, Thomas felt like his body was a hot singing wire again. 

It had taken Thomas five years, two rounds of electrotherapy, and a false engagement to get to this moment in the woods with Jimmy. 

It was more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And still there are hurdles to be jumped for our little love birds.   
> Namely: Daisy.


	22. Wade in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She cried her heart out when she saw you weren’t in your bed. Cried till she passed out. Cried for you.” he added, pointing a spiteful finger at Thomas. Thomas narrowed his eyes at the gust of whiskey that exhaled on his father’s breath. “Tell me this Tommy, cause I’ve always been curious. What did I ever do to you? Eh?” 
> 
> The nerve of the question was so staggering that it rendered Thomas mute. He went white with rage, his lips pressed into a thin line to keep every hateful word in. 
> 
> “What did I ever do… to make you such a bad child?” His father asked with a snort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well friends, we are almost at the end! We have two more chapters and an epilogue to go. What does this mean for you? It means you are about to go on a psychotic carousel ride... and this isn't even the end of the story! My god there's a sequel too. As always thank you so much to my readers and reviewers. Your comments mean the world to me. I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors that I did not catch... I go through everything as well as I can but sometimes things slip. I'm doing this goliath without a beta!  
> Enjoy!!

Kissing Thomas was comparable to one thing and one thing only: drinking absinthe. 

Elvira had many connections and many more delights, making her a party unto herself when she was in the proper mood. New Years Eve had found her in a delight of fanfare as she toasted in the new year of 1925, and she’d brought out a bottle of _la fée verte_ to the audible groans of her entire company as they pulled crackers and sang round after round of jazz. Apparently absinthe was illegal, or so Jack had warned when he’d poured Elvira her first glass, but that had only made Jimmy want to try it. The fact that it had been 85 proof had only enticed Jimmy more, and so Elvira had effectively taken his absinthe virginity by pouring him a shot glass and passing him her opium pipe. 

Jimmy had promptly blacked out memory wise, but apparently (from what others claimed) the night had involved him drinking himself into delirium, trying on three of Elvira’s dresses in a mock fashion show (to the hilarity of their group), attempting to play the saxophone only to cry when he couldn’t, and finally kissing Jack Ross on the mouth. 

_C’est la vie_ , he supposed. 

When he’d declared his feelings before Thomas, he’d felt just as brave as the first night he’d tried absinthe. Terrified, yes, but also brave, and the look of adoration and disbelief upon Thomas’ handsome visage was more than worth his pains. When Thomas had lowered his mouth to Jimmy’s and finally blessedly kissed him, Jimmy had felt himself rise up on his toes unbidden. The very ground had detracted from his feet. With each taste of his lips and tongue, Jimmy had discovered the truth about love and his part in it. He’d felt the icy barrier of a shallow footman without dreams disappear, and in turn his true form blossom. A man bred for jazz, a man greedy for romance, a man utterly (helplessly) fully in love with Thomas Barrow. 

He’d swarmed Thomas’ perfect mouth, tasting the hint of Woodbine cigarettes, ginger, and nutmeg- like Elvira pouring him a shot glass of absinthe, Jimmy’s senses were robbed of their innocence. 

They’d returned to Downton at a slow pace, their hands intertwined as their walk became languid and their conversation dwindled to silence. The steady crunch of gravel and dirt beneath their feet had been a beautiful rhythmic sound, one the had rocked Jimmy to sleep that night when they’d finally made it back to the abbey and had returned to their separate rooms. In a way it felt inhumanly cruel that he should have to sleep in his own bed, that he should have to console himself without Thomas even if only for a few hours… but Thomas sent him to bed with a kiss, and Jimmy had stroked his lips as he’d fallen asleep. 

The very next evening, Jimmy found himself down at the piano after sending his favorite Irish radical to bed, plotting out something wholly new and beautiful upon the piano. At first, he’d thought he was writing Thomas a love song, but then the piece had taken on a life of its own and transformed into something incredible as Jimmy remembered the beauty and kindness of Mrs. Barrow. His scales ascended, light and tinkling as he considered the lines about her eyes and the way her fingers had felt so cool upon his own. 

He’d barely noticed when Thomas had come back down from helping serve dinner, which was a shame. He ought to have a cowbell put around Thomas’ neck so that he could properly witness the warmth that lit up the room whenever Thomas walked in. Instead he was pleasantly greeted by the sudden rush of emotion as Thomas appeared next to him and sat down gently upon the piano stool with his back to the keys. Jimmy took his eyes off the piano keys, instead watching Thomas’ expression as he closed his eyes and smiled. Thomas looked at peace, as if sleeping instead of listening; Jimmy found himself utterly drawn to the shadow of Thomas’ high cheekbones. The beauty of his almond shaped eyes, and the way that his dark eyelashes curled against his cheek. 

If he’d only had the skill, he would compose a song just to the tiny shadows that were made from Thomas’ eyelashes. 

“That’s beautiful, Jimmy…” Thomas murmured. 

“It’s your mother.” Jimmy replied with a smile. Thomas opened one lovely gray green flecked eye to catch Jimmy’s stare. “I wanted to write her a piece. Something to do her justice.” 

Thomas was touched; he tilted his head to the side, hair falling in front of his eyes and out of his Brilliantine hold as he murmured, “Thank you, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy just kept playing, wanting to sooth Thomas to sleep as if he were laying in bed and not sitting upon a piano stool. 

“Yes,” called a voice across the room. Curious, Jimmy looked around to see they weren’t alone; Andy was at the table working on what was surely another piece of poetry for Daisy. He looked haggard after servicing dinner, exhausted with unrequited love as he set his pen down to look back at Jimmy with a small somber smile. “Thank you Jimmy, it’s helping my poetry immensely.” 

“Read some?” Jimmy offered coyly. Andy blushed and quickly looked away. 

“I probably shouldn’t.” Andy muttered, suddenly scooping up all his papers and his pen to shuffle them erratically and leave the table. “Matter of fact, let me go put this rubbish up before Carson comes down and starts barking orders.” And with that he left for the stairwell. 

“He’s writing about Daisy.” Jimmy grinned, smug as he returned to the piano. Thomas smirked as Jimmy added an elegant stair to his piece with a flick of the wrist. “He’s afraid you’re going to clobber him.” and with that Jimmy plonked down on a low key as if to symbolize Thomas walloping someone. 

“… I don’t think I’ll mind.” Thomas replied, his tone so soft that Jimmy almost didn’t hear it over the echo of the low key. The room was briefly deserted, a treasured second in their normally hectic work lives, and Jimmy’s heart leapt a little in anticipation and elation as Thomas leaned forward to ever so gently kiss his forehead. A grin burst onto Jimmy’s lips, stretching his face as he leaned into Thomas’ warm touch. 

But then the sound of feet upon the stone resounded again, and the pair of them pulled apart before anyone could see them in a precarious position. Jimmy’s forehead was still tingling from Thomas’ kiss, slightly cool with the dampness of his lips. 

Andy re appeared, this time holding a book of poetry instead of his own manuscripts, and as he retook his seat at the servant’s table, their company was added with one more as Daisy appeared in the doorway. She carried with her a tea tray, loaded with ginger biscuits and a steaming teapot; her smile only grew more smug when she saw Thomas sitting on the piano bench. 

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed as Daisy set the tea tray down on the servant’s table and unloaded it. The sight of her made his blood boil. 

“Are you reading poetry, Andy?” Daisy asked, intrigued. Andy flushed, burying his nose in his book as Daisy poured him a cup of tea. She passed two cups to Thomas, who accepted them in silent thanks only to pass one over to Jimmy. Jimmy sat his atop the piano’s edge, unwilling to taste it just yet. 

“Oh, yes” Andy flushed, “I’m an avid reader. I love to read really.” 

But this was a downright lie. Moseley had been teaching Andy to read and write on the sly. Thomas said nothing to Andy’s credit, instead pulling free a cigarette from his vest pocket and searching for his lighter in his jacket. His elbow brushed into Jimmy by accident, and Jimmy grinned at the sensation. He’d never been more delighted for someone to elbow him in the ribs. As Thomas pulled out his lighter, Jimmy took it from his fingers, flicking the metal head to spark a light which Thomas drew deep from to exhale a cloud of smoke. It washed over Jimmy like warm bathwater, coating his skin in the smell of Woodbine and Thomas. 

Thomas relaxed into the piano, smiling wistfully at Jimmy as Jimmy began to play with his lighter, twirling it around his fingers. Jimmy knew he ought to resume playing the piano, knew he ought to at least pretend for the sake of Daisy and Andy, but instead he merely continued to watch Thomas watching him, and wondered. Wondered at this incredible man. 

“Thomas-“ Daisy’s irritating voice cut across their moment, effectively ruining it as Thomas jumped on the piano stool and blinked owlishly at his fake-fiancé. She was glaring at Jimmy; Jimmy glared right back. “Won’t you come sit with me?” Daisy offered, pulling out a chair at the table next to her. 

“Yes, Thomas, won’t you?” Jimmy sneered, his voice falsely high as he began to diddle again at the piano. He’d stopped working on Mrs. Barrow’s piece entirely, this time venting his frustration on the keys as he plonked against them with unnecessary force. He took a sip of his tea, cursing himself as he scalded his tongue. Was it just his imagination or did the tea taste nasty? 

“Why not sit on the piano bench?” Andy scowled, clearly a sarcastic emission as he vented his frustrations at Daisy’s lack of affection towards him. Unfortunately for him, Daisy took him up at once. 

“That’s a good idea!” Daisy declared, looking downright delighted with herself as she picked up a handful of ginger biscuits and without further ado sat on Thomas’ lap. Jimmy choked on his tea, nearly spitting it out onto the piano as Thomas spluttered and goggled at Daisy’s nerve. She was perched upon his knee, looking very pleased with herself as she offered him her handful of ginger biscuits like they were nuggets of gold. Thomas’ cigarette nearly fell out of his hands. 

“I made you ginger biscuits.” Daisy said with saccharine sweetness. Jimmy was still choking and spluttering, unable to get over the audacity of Daisy’s forwardness as Thomas desperately tried to reign in control on the situation. 

“Th-th-thank you.” Thomas finally managed to stutter out, but he gagged as Daisy plucked up a ginger biscuit to shove it into his open mouth. Thomas coughed, nearly choking, and Jimmy’s blood pressure hit a boiling point as Thomas caught his eye in utter embarrassment. 

“Want one, Jimmy?” Daisy offered, and though her tone was still sweet it had a biting edge where he was concerned. 

Jimmy was ready to punch her in the throat. 

“What, are you gonna feed me too?” Jimmy sneered. 

“If you insist.” Daisy challenged, and without further ado she shoved a ginger biscuit into his mouth. Jimmy choked, his senses suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove. He gagged, swallowing the ginger biscuit and quickly washing the offending taste down with tea. But even the tea was disgusting, and Jimmy gagged again as he tried to clear his mouth of the taste. 

“Tastes disgusting.” Jimmy sneered. “What do you put in them? Lye?” 

“Ginger, actually. Thomas loves them.” Daisy retorted. “I make them just for him. Because I love him.” 

Jimmy felt the teacup handle begin to crack underneath his commanding grip as he glared at Daisy. Daisy glared right back. 

“Is that the best you can do?” Jimmy spat. “A biscuit?” 

“It’s the thought that counts.” Daisy sneered. “A true heart is more important than a golden touch.” 

“What a shame for you.” Jimmy countered. Daisy flushed, her dark eyes narrowing maliciously as she put a commanding arm around Thomas shoulders and ate one of her own ginger biscuits. 

“What’s going on here?!” 

The commanding voice of Carson startled all three of them out of their private tug-of-war, and Daisy hurriedly made to get off Thomas’ lap before Carson could comment on it. Thomas hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette. Unfortunately for Thomas, Daisy’s hand went down at just the right angle and pressure to touch him at the juncture of his thighs so that he had to bite down on a muffled groan of pain as Daisy clambered to her feet. Jimmy seized, absolutely infuriated by Daisy’s cheek as she looked over her shoulder and dared to grin at Thomas- dared to when she’d touched him in such a fashion-! 

“Sorry.” Daisy whispered, but a blush was forming across her cheeks. She wasn’t sorry at all! 

“Oh that’s it-!” Jimmy snarled, ready to get to his feet and throw down with the little rag-a-muffin, but Thomas snagged him about the waist as he stood, forcing him back down onto the piano bench. 

“She didn’t mean it-“ Thomas assured him at once. Jimmy didn’t believe it for a god damn second. 

That little flower-caked twat got a good grope and enjoyed every second of it. Jimmy was ready to sell his soul on it. How dare she! 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Carson snapped, glowering from the doorway as both Thomas and Jimmy clambered to their feet. Andy had been the first to rise. “What is this ridiculous display?” 

“Nothing, Mr. Carson.” Thomas tried to assure him, but Carson was having none of it. 

“Did my eyes deceive me, or was Daisy sitting on your lap?” Carson said it as if it were the end-all be-all of civilization, like the very world would fall into absolute chaos should Daisy dare to sit on Thomas’ knee and put her arm around his neck. 

For the first time in their natural lives, Carson and Jimmy were in complete agreement. 

“Is it so improper, Mr. Carson?” Daisy asked, her tone pathetically hopeful for leniency when Jimmy knew for a fact she’d get none. 

“It most certainly is!” Carson barked, “And I should remind you Daisy that such behavior is not becoming of a young lady!” 

_That’s right._ Jimmy thought nastily, _So keep your sticky little hands off my man-_

Jimmy did a double take at the hot possessiveness of his thoughts. He’d never thought of Thomas as _his man_ before, but now that he’d started he found he rather liked the ring to it. Thomas was such a treasure, to claim him as _his_ made Jimmy feel rich. Like he were wearing a golden crown, or an emerald velvet dress. 

“What if Mrs. Hughes was sitting on your-“ Andy started out, but before he had a chance to finish that damning sentence Thomas threw himself in front of the carriage with a sharp cry of “Andy!” 

Andy did a double take, seeming to come back to himself. Daisy was flushing, amazed at Andy’s near slip-up. If sitting on Thomas’ lap was improper, sneering about Mrs. Hughes sitting on Mr. Carson’s was near suicide. 

“Time to call it a night, don’t you think?” Thomas snapped. “Why don’t you put away your books and get washed up for dinner.” 

Andy didn’t take any chances, grabbing his book from the table and skirting around the edge of the table as far way from Carson as he could manage to slip out the back. Thomas sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck with his damaged hand as he caught Jimmy’s eye. 

_Cor that was close_ \- he seemed to say. Jimmy could not help but agree. 

“Daisy!” Mrs. Patmore barked from the kitchen, “Where are you with that ruddy tea set? I need you in here!” 

Daisy huffed, snatching up the unloaded tea tray to shove it under her arm. She had the nerve to squeeze Thomas’ hand as she passed, as if it were hers to claim and toy with, and Jimmy let out a long breath through his nose as Daisy gave him one final scowl. 

Twat. 

Mr. Carson still looked heavily displeased as he crossed the room, now alone with Thomas and Jimmy with a telegram in hand; he passed it over to Thomas who took it warily. 

“You’ve received a telegram, Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Carson said dryly. “And I’ll remind you if I ever see anything so lewd regarding Daisy in my hall again you’ll be the one to suffer for it.” 

Thomas pursed his lips, looking down at the unopened telegram. 

“But it’s so late.” Thomas mumbled; Jimmy could sense the nerves in his voice. 

“Indeed.” Carson said; there was a wariness in his voice as Thomas opened the telegram. 

The pair of them waited as Thomas read; his expression slackened as his face grew gray. His eyes, so beautiful and flecked, were suddenly haunted and dead- like the dried husk of a tree that had once flourished with life. 

“What is it?” Jimmy asked at once. Even as he asked, his mind flitted to Mrs. Barrow, dying in her marriage bed, and feared he already knew. 

“I’m sure whatever it is, it’s none of your concern.” Carson reprimanded him. Jimmy paid him no mind as Thomas refolded his telegram to shove it into his vest. He exited the servant’s hall without another word, making a bee line for the back door at a clipped and tight pace. Jimmy followed him at once, his heart pounding. 

Thomas exited out the back door, and Jimmy followed not even two steps behind to close it firmly behind them; there in the quite of the darkened courtyard Thomas hunched over, grabbing at his hair and pulling as if his scalp were on fire. 

Jimmy fretted behind him, his mind jumping from one awful scenario to the next though all revolved around Mrs. Barrow. 

“What?” Jimmy begged as Thomas kept turning away; he wouldn’t allow Jimmy to see his face, rubbing over it with hard hands so that he was almost scrubbing at his skin, “What is it? Is it your mother?” 

Thomas nodded. Jimmy reached out to touch him with both hands, taking him by the shoulders to rub at the stiffened muscles lovingly. 

Now he was practically certain.

Thomas sniffed, turning in Jimmy’s embrace so that they were chest to chest as Thomas dropped one hand then another to reveal his beautiful face in absolute agony. His lips and eyes were contorted, his brow folded as he gritted his teeth and took deep breathes through his long nose. It was to no avail. 

“She’s um… she’s…” But Thomas could not finish.  
He didn’t need to. 

Jimmy grimaced as Thomas’ expression crumpled even further, and he knew Thomas was going to cry even before he did so- he took Thomas’ face in his hands, guiding Thomas to lean against his shoulder so that his face was buried in the juncture of Jimmy’s neck. He shook beneath Jimmy’s hands, and Jimmy’s heart ached for him in that moment. Ached for all the pain he had to endure. It wasn’t fair that Thomas had gotten so little time with his mother only to be pulled away and informed through telegram of her passing. He ought to have been there by her side, been able to comfort her as he’d surely wanted to do. The damning walls of society were ugly apathetic things, and in that moment Jimmy hated Mr. Barrow more than he could admit. Hated him for his unintentional cruelty. 

“She didn’t suffer.” Jimmy mumbled softly into his ear, though in a way he knew it was untrue. Mrs. Barrow absolutely had suffered, so he amended his statement at once. “She didn’t suffer long, Thomas.” 

Thomas sniffed loudly against his skin; Jimmy’s neck was growing wet. Jimmy ran a hand through his hair, toying at the soft feathery ends where the Brilliantine was less tight in its hold. 

The back door opened. 

“Thomas, dinner’s ready- what’s going on?” 

Like pathetic clockwork, Daisy had come calling only to find Thomas in the backyard clinging to Jimmy for dear life, and Jimmy looked over Thomas’ shoulder in a lurch to find Daisy glaring violently at him like he’d just attempted to assault a kitten with a knife. Jimmy wished he could find it in him to care. 

“You can quit looking at him like I’m the devil, his mother’s gone an’ died.” Jimmy spat, and Daisy’s expression slid from hatred to guilt as a hand flew to her mouth in horror. Jimmy didn’t know why but he found it incredibly hard to not roll his eyes. What did Daisy know? She’d certainly never met Mrs. Barrow- Mrs. Barrow had been the one begging Thomas not to marry Daisy. 

Jimmy comforted himself with the knowledge that Mrs. Barrow would have probably despised Daisy. No doubt she would have told Daisy so, right in front of Jimmy. 

_“You’re not good enough for my son!”_ she would have said angrily. Jimmy would have nodded smugly. 

“Thomas, I-“ Daisy was breathless, out of her depth without a clue as to what to say. Thomas was still sniffing against Jimmy’s shoulder, and Jimmy kept a hand on his back encouragingly, wishing for nothing in the world but for Daisy to bugger right off. She took another step forward, a hand reaching out, “I’m so sorry, I don’t even know what to say- are you alright? When did it happen? Do you want to talk about it?” 

Thomas gave her zero answers, in no state to cope with her badgering, and Jimmy’s anger flashed again as he moved Thomas to the left to keep Daisy from touching him. Daisy caught his eye, affronted. 

“Can it, will you?” Jimmy snapped angrily, “He’s in no state to deal with your rabbiting.” 

“Oh will you back off!” Daisy spat off, “You act like you’re his fiancé!” 

“I’d make a better one than you!” Jimmy knew it for a fact. Daisy snorted, mildly disgusted, and it only served to make Jimmy madder as she folded her arms over her chest. 

“You’re a right piece of work, you know that-?” 

“Trust me, love, you don’t want to know what I think of you!” Jimmy snarled, making Daisy’s eyebrows skyrocket into her hairline. But before the argument could get any more out of hand, Thomas cut them both off. He rose up from Jimmy’s shoulder, hurriedly scrubbing at his face to hide his tears and snotty nose to sniff heartily and beg, 

“Let it go. Both of you let it go.” He kept wiping his eyes, till both his hands were moist with shed tears, “For five minutes, please. Let it go.” 

A rush of guilt overtook Jimmy and rendered him mute as he saw how distraught Thomas looked. Even Daisy appeared cowed, unusually silent as she reached out to rub Thomas’ back and arm with both hands. She squeezed at his bicep, perhaps trying to sooth him, but Jimmy couldn’t see how any touch from her could compare to his own comfort. Bitter, Jimmy reached for Thomas’ jacket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it for Thomas so that he could take a weak drag. Thomas kept sniffing, wiping at his eyes even as he pinched onto his cigarette and took another weak drag. His hair was in his face, rubbed loose from its normal Brilliantine hold. 

Daisy, of course, was never one to shuttup for long. Jimmy let out a long breath through his nose, irritated, as she began talking again. 

“You have to go to Stockport.” Daisy murmured softly. “We’ll leave right now. I’ll tell Mr. Carson and get your coat. We’ll figure out the rest as we walk.” 

She stood up on tip toe, and Jimmy’s cheeks flushed scarlet with rage as Daisy placed the tenderest kiss upon Thomas’ handsome cheekbone. Thomas closed his eyes, so ashamed that he could not even look at Jimmy as Daisy rocked back down onto flat feet and pulled away. She left them both, entering back into the house and closing the back door behind them. Her kiss was like a brand on Thomas’ cheek- Jimmy imagined he could almost see an ugly bruise forming there, marring the perfect skin. Thomas rubbed hard at his cheek, wiping away the evidence of her falsely placed love as quick as he could. 

Jimmy couldn’t stand it, to know that someone else had kissed Thomas when Thomas was only for him. They were so much a part of one another that when Daisy kissed Thomas it was like she was kissing Jimmy as well. Maybe that was why Jimmy found himself growing so angry at Daisy now a days. Every time she flirted with Thomas, or doted on him, it was like she was doing the same to Jimmy… and Jimmy had had his fill of kitchen maids.

He took Thomas’ face in his hands, and gently lowered his chin so as to kiss him softly upon the cheek. Thomas did not scrub his kiss away, wet eyelashes brushing against Jimmy’s heated skin as he accepted Jimmy’s kiss in numbed surrender. Jimmy pulled back and Thomas straightened up to look up at the sky overhead. The night was starless, with clouds overcasting the view. 

“I wasn’t there.” Thomas whispered, a broken man in his defeat. Jimmy quickly wrapped him up in his arms again, unwilling to hear another word of such rubbish. Who on earth could predict death? Thomas had a full time job, he couldn’t just run around as he pleased. He’d done everything he could for his mother- everything feasible and honest- even his churlish father would have to admit to that. 

“Hush. Hush it, damnit.” Jimmy muttered against the skin of Thomas’ temple, “Hush it, not another word out of ya, ya hear? I won’t have it.” 

For a long time they simply held one another, Jimmy comforting Thomas and Thomas drawing strength from him. Jimmy wished that it was all some kind of horrific shock- that Mrs. Barrow’s death was unexpected and freakish. The awful truth was that from the moment Jimmy had seen her laying upon her pillow, he’d known she was going to die and rather soon. She’d had that sickly pallor about her that Jimmy could remember seeing upon his own mother. 

He could recall with ugly vivid clarity how his mother had been so pale that he could practically see every vein in her neck and cheeks. The bags beneath her eyes had been so heavy and dark it had appeared as if someone had punched her in the face. Her eyes had been listless, unable to focus on Jimmy as she whimpered and moaned in a feverish delusion. Jimmy had held her hand and put a cool rag upon her brow, had kissed her sweetly and promised not to leave her side. 

But then she’d bade him to take a walk, had urged him to get out of the house and just take a quick job about the property if only to clear his head and get some fresh air. 

_“Your grandfather is… is just… very angry… at himself.” His mother had mumbled, unable to speak for too long as her voice cracked and broke._

_“He wants to kill me, mum.” Jimmy had retorted. “He hates me because I’m a… I’m a different sort.”_

_But his mother had only smiled and blinked blearily. “It’s such a pretty day, Jimmy…. open the window won’t you?”_

_Jimmy had done so._

_“Go take a walk, get some air. Yes?”_  
_“I don’t want to leave you, mum.”_  
_“Love, I’m not going to die from one minute alone, and you need the sun. Go pick me some flowers, won’t you? Something pretty for a jar.”_

That was the last thing she’d ever said to Jimmy: _“Something pretty for a jar.”_

Jimmy pursed his lips, turning his cheek upon Thomas’ shoulder and allowed himself to soak up the smell of Thomas’ hair pomade. Thomas’ cigarette burned away in limp fingers, eventually to be dropped upon soggy concrete still damp from freshly fallen summer rain as Thomas instead buried his hands in Jimmy’s hair. 

But then the back door opened, and they had to let go again. 

Daisy had re appeared, wearing her own coat with her apron gone. She had Thomas’ overcoat in her arms, though both her cloche and Thomas’ fedora were missing as she crossed the pavement and unfolded Thomas’ coat to help him shrug it on. Thomas couldn’t even look at her, turning his face away in shame. 

“I’ve told Mr. Carson, Mrs. Patmore, and Mrs. Hughes.” Daisy explained, “We’ve been given immediate leave; they wanted me to tell you how terribly sorry all of them are for your loss.” 

Thomas’ fingers stumbled upon his buttons; he couldn’t even focus on his coat. He was a lost man as he turned to Jimmy for support, and Jimmy at once reached out to button his coat for him. Daisy looked on disapprovingly. 

“Jimmy- will you-?” Thomas mumbled, the tiniest bit of hope in his tired voice. Naturally Daisy crushed it flat. 

“Jimmy should probably stay here until we’ve figured everything out. He’ll only be in the way.” Daisy reminded him. Thomas visibly deflated, shoulders sagging awfully as he sighed and looked at the ground. Jimmy gave Daisy the coldest look he could summon up, a withering ugly thing that made Daisy bristle. 

“Don’t worry.” Jimmy said to Thomas, his voice clipped but earnest as he reached out to rub Thomas’ arm again. “You’ll see me soon.” 

He had no intention of taking this beating laying down. If Daisy thought she was going to shrug him off in Thomas’ time of need, she had another thing coming. 

Daisy gave him one last scathing look as she pulled Thomas away, the pair of them slipping off into the dark of the night until they were utterly swallowed by the shadows of the Abbey and only the fading sounds of crunching gravel were left. 

In time these too were lost to silence. 

“Be in the way, will I?” Jimmy muttered nastily, turning on his heel and storming for the back door. “You’re the one in the way, little girl.” 

He’d already made his decision. 

Running past the servant’s hall where everyone was sitting down to eat, Jimmy instead diverted for the stairwell and took the steps two at a time as he ran for the ground floor and busted through the secret passage into the darkened foyer. None of the family were out, no doubt getting snug in their beds, but Jimmy had a feeling one handsy Irish chauffeur might be having a midnight Mary snack, and so he ascended the grand staircase to the gallery floor. It was likewise gloomy, with only a bit of twinkling light left in the wall lamps. Jimmy barreled around the corner only to jerk back and flatten himself against the will, irritated at the sight of Branson and Lady Mary being utterly ridiculous in the middle of the hallway sharing a chaste kiss goodnight with hands intertwined. 

Stupid toffs. 

Jimmy huffed, stamping his foot several times upon the uncarpeted part of the floor, and relished the tiny gasp he heard fall from Lady Mary’s lips as he smoothed back his hair and came around the corner. Sure enough, Branson now had his hands to himself, looking quite embarrassed as Lady Mary clutched at the neck of her beaded housecoat and gave Jimmy a blazè ‘oh it’s only a servant’ look. 

“Jimmy!” Branson coughed, flushed as he raked a hand through his dark brown locks. “Rather late-?” 

“Congratulations.” Jimmy snapped, in no mood to put up with Branson’s attempts to hide from the fact that he’d just been sucking Lady Mary’s face off, “You know the time.” 

“I never-!” Lady Mary snorted, utterly affronted that Jimmy would dare to talk in such a way to his employer. But if she thought that was bad she was in for a real shock. Branson chittered, shushing her with a kind hand even as the faintest blush crept over her lovely cheeks. 

“What can I do for you, Jimmy?” Branson asked. 

“I need permission to leave.” Jimmy explained. 

“For how long?” 

“A few days at most, let’s make it an uneven three.” Jimmy offered. Branson blanched, clearly daunted by the prospect of being without a valet for three days when Lady Mary was officially upon his arm. 

“Three days? Where are you going?” Branson asked. “Is everything alright?” 

“Thomas’ mother has gone and died and he’s off to Stockport.” Jimmy explained. “I’m going with him.” 

Lady Mary frowned, and in a wholly unexpected move seemed to look the tiniest bit sorry for Thomas as she touched the throat of her silk housecoat and pursed her plump lips. 

“I am sorry to hear that.” Lady Mary admitted, and she didn’t sound unkind. “But why exactly would your presence be required for a family death? You’re hardly related to Barrow.”

Jimmy flushed, chewing on his lip for a moment as he considered what lie he might weave her to get her off the scent. Unfortunately Branson was a blood hound, and was starting to grin at Jimmy in such a devious way that Jimmy felt himself growing pale. 

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the fit you suffered in front of me the other day.” Branson asked slyly. Lady Mary did not look pleased. 

“Fit?” Lady Mary repeated, “You suffered a fit?” 

“I’d call it an ‘awakening’ of sorts.” Branson carried on. Jimmy’s scowl grew uglier with each taunt. “Needless to say it was a long time coming.” 

“Do I have your permission or not?” Jimmy spat through clenched teeth. 

“Would it matter if I even gave it to you?” 

“Probably not.” 

“Well, there you go.” Branson chuckled, “But make sure you’re back promptly, and pass my condolences onto Thomas.” 

“I still don’t understand why James is needed for a family funeral.” Lady Mary muttered, sounding quite irritable, “I hope we are fair employers but even we expect to get what we pay for-“ 

“Oh trust me, I get more than enough from Jimmy- I think I can manage three days without him.” Branson assured her at once. Jimmy had had enough of waisting time, he tipped his head to both of them, turning around at once to head back down the gallery hall. 

He had a train to catch. 

~*~

They caught the final train for Stockport, and by the time it docked at the station is was on the verge midnight. 

It was a good thing Daisy now knew the way to the shop, because Thomas was utterly lost in terms of navigation and could only count his surroundings in reference to memories he had of his mother. There was the bookstore where his mother had bought him his first book: The Water-Babies. There was the park where his mother had often taken them for walks. Thomas’ earliest memory was of his mother in that park, of being in a pram with Margret and close to sleep, curled up with her under a knitted blanket as his mother walked along and kept conversation with a friendly neighbor who’d spotted her walking and wanted to say hello. 

Thomas could distinctly remember his mother fixing his blanket a little better over his legs so as to cover his bare toes. He couldn’t have been older than two in that memory, perhaps a year and a half. 

There was _Stockport Selections_ … his mother had often visited Mrs. Baxter with freshly made pies or biscuits. The pair of them had talked for hours about their disagreeable husbands while Phyllis had entertained both Margret and Thomas in their foyer. They’d once put Thomas in a frock and painted his face with Mrs. Baxter’s powders- Thomas had cried the whole way through it till his mother had come and found him in the bathroom and laughed herself silly. 

There was _Barrow and Sons Clockworks_. The stoop on which his mother had screamed and thrashed, begging for Thomas to be let back into the house on a snowy December night. They found the door unlocked and Daisy let them both inside. 

He didn’t like it when she touched him, even when she helped him to take off his coat and hung it up on the peg inside the door. Her hands felt too hot, too demanding, and Thomas instinctively pulled back from her when she attempted to take his hand. Thomas wished that he could sooth Daisy, help her to understand even as she gave him a hurt look and kept quiet. Earlier he might have taken her hands in his own and kissed her knuckles, attempted to console her for his surly behavior. Now, Thomas couldn’t manage the gumption to even look at her for more than five seconds. 

From the minute that Jimmy had pressed his lips to Thomas’ own, Thomas had known he could never kiss Daisy again. Would never want to kiss Daisy again. He didn’t want her holding his hands- his hands were for Jimmy. He didn’t want her to claim him as her fiancé- he wanted to marry Jimmy. He didn’t want her to press her lips to his own or see his naked chest- his lips and naked skin were for Jimmy. 

They ascended the stairs to the second floor in silence, the sound of sniffling and muted crying growing louder as they reached the top. The scene that met them was everything Thomas had expected, and still all too much for him to process. 

Margret was slumped onto their family sofa, each of her underarms occupied by a crying child that sniffed and sniveled into her rose cotton housecoat. Her hair was unbound and hanging over her shoulder in a limp tousled braid. A man sat next to her on the couch, with a bitter and drawn expression as he continually rubbed her back. She looked up at the sound of creaking wood, the sight of her swollen and red eyes made Thomas’ heart clench painfully tight in his breast. Distraught, Margret was utterly relieved to find him on the stoop, and rose from the couch to leave the two children and man behind if only to cross the living room and embrace him with open arms. Daisy backed up, giving them plenty of room as Margret sniffed and sniveled into his shoulder. Thomas hugged her at once, burying his face into her hair and inhaling the steep scent of soap and lilac as she whispered throatily, “Oh Thomas.” 

It summed up the situation well enough. 

For a minute that was all there was, twins holding one another tightly as they once might have long ago in the womb. They’d certainly held one another in their pram, fingers and toes tangled from trying to share a too-small blanket as their mother took a brisk walk in the park. Now as adults, they held one another again, and though they no longer shared a blanket they still shared comfort and warmth. 

She pulled back after a moment, for a moment taken up with the curiosity of seeing him in full livery. True enough, she’d seen him in his livery before, but she seemed captivated by it now… the gold of his buttons and the olive green of his vest. Then her eyes fell on Daisy, and her expression grew gray with understanding. She sniffed, wiping at her eyes and cheeks to make herself presentable as Daisy clasped her hands before her and tried for a meagre introduction. 

“This is Daisy Mason.” Thomas said, a solid enough explanation. He could no longer willingly call her his fiancé. Daisy shook Margret’s damp hand at once, a timid smile upon her lips. Margret said nothing, miserable as she dropped Daisy’s hand. 

The man on the couch had risen up, and it was only when he turned fully to face Thomas and Daisy that Thomas realized exactly who he was: David Baxter. 

David looked quite similar to Phyllis, with the same dark brown hair and black eyes, but he also had a squarer jaw and broader shoulders. Age had changed him, put gray in his hair and lines around his eyes- he looked more tired than ever, ten thousand years away from the smarmy youth who’d once slicked back his hair and asked Thomas how he looked. 

It was damn incredible, to see such an old memory come back to the flesh. To know that this was the man who’d married his twin sister and taken over Thomas’ place in the family clock shop. David extended his hand for Thomas to shake, but it ended up in a weird black-slapping hug as the pair of them pulled each other close and embraced for old time’s sake. 

“Hullo, David.” Thomas mumbled into David’s shoulder. Christ he was tall… he was surely over six feet tall, half-dressed with an unbuttoned brown vest and stained shirtsleeves that seemed to be wet with Margret’s tears. 

“I’m so sorry.” David said. 

“Thank you.” Thomas said as they pulled back. He meant it, smiling bitterly as David raked a hand through his salted hair and let out a deep sigh, “She liked you.” 

His mother had utterly delighted in David, had thought him a true gentleman, and had always been quick to compliment him before others. His father had begrudgingly liked David, had even allowed him to work in the clock shop from time to time when the Baxter family needed extra income, and had always allowed Thomas to play cricket with David’s friends when they came calling. It had been David to give Thomas his childhood nickname of ‘cricket’, a result of Thomas winning David’s friends several runs during a game of cricket despite only being eight years old and barely big enough to keep his britches on his hips. David had celebrated by buying him a penny lick, and had boasted that night over a shared supper to Thomas’ father that Thomas was surely going to be a famous sportsman one day. 

Thomas’ father had rubbed his hair, and in a shockingly affectionate gesture had said “That’s my boy”. It had been the only time Thomas’ father had willingly claimed him as his own in Thomas’ youth. Thomas had resolutely stuck to David’s side after that. 

“Miss Mason.” David shook Daisy’s hand. “I’m David Baxter- Margret’s husband.”  
Daisy smiled earnestly, pleased to finally be meeting Thomas’ family despite the awful circumstances. 

“Daisy, please.” Daisy offered. Margret sniffed, nodding absently as she reached out blindly for Thomas again. Thomas took her hand without hesitation, anything to show his support. 

“You’ll have to forgive us.” Margret whispered, sounding as if she had a terrible head cold, “We’ve had a trying night.” 

“O’course.” Daisy said sympathetically, and though she was not bidden to she reached out and took Margret’s other hand. “Forgive me, but- are these your boys?” 

And it was then that Thomas really payed attention to the two children sitting on the couch. 

“Oh-“ Margret blurted out, suddenly realizing the introduction still to occur, and she turned at once to hastily wipe her face again and pull at both of the children on the couch. “Oh goodness- okay-“ 

She got them both up and pulled them around so that they were both standing in front of her. 

They were two boys, only slightly taller than the other, though both were pale with dark hair. The taller of the two wore blue striped pajamas, his dark brown hair tousled from sleep and (bizarrely enough) shoes upon his feet. He looked as if someone had jerked him out of a deep sleep, shoved shoes on his feet, and forced him to walk when he’d wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, and his dark brown eyes were heavy lidded as he yawned and rubbed at his temple.  
The shorter boy was a timid creature, wearing dark green pajamas that appeared to be far too big for him so that the waist of the trousers were rolled up to reveal a white underside. He only had socks upon his feet in adverse to shoes, and his loosely curly hair was slightly lighter than his brother’s- a soft honey dew brown. He had blue eyes, watery with emotion as he continuously tried to turn his face to hide in Margret’s housecoat. He seemed terrified, on the verge of crying as Margret tried to get him to face forward. 

Thomas swallowed around an enormous knot in his throat, utterly amazed at the two boys before him. He knew who they were, but had never imagined in his life that he might meet them. That he might be given a chance to love them. An enormous affection was beginning to well up in his chest, threatening to suffocate him from the pressure of it. Daisy was stooping over, hands upon her knees as she observed both the boys. The taller one yawned again, clearly eager to get back to bed. 

“Thomas, these are your nephews.” Margret explained softly. 

“…Hello.” Thomas finally managed. It was a meagre, pathetic first introduction. It hardly sufficed for all he felt. 

“Hello.” the taller boy whispered. The smaller one said nothing, still hiding his face in Margret’s housecoat. 

“This is Thomas.” Margret explained, running a loving hand through Thomas’ tousled dark hair. He yawned for a third time. “Your namesake.” 

_Namesake…_ Thomas thought, unable to fully process it as he crouched to take to a knee. Now he and Thomas were eye to eye, and as Thomas stared at him he was utterly amazed. To know this little boy was named for him- for him and him alone. It was an incredible feeling of adoration and love, glazed over by the fact that nothing could take this from him. Nothing could change the fact that this little boy was named after him, that they were as much a part of him as the air he breathed and the skin he wore. Margret’s blood was his blood; these boys were his boys… and he’d never been prouder. 

“Thomas.” Thomas repeated his own name, amazed at how nicely it sounded upon his lips. His nephew yawned for the fourth time, about ready to keel over. “I think you wear the name better than me.” 

His nephew smiled a little, too sleepy to truly concentrate on conversation. 

“And this little boy is Daniel.” Margret attempted to get Daniel to turn around even as he clung to her house coat. Thomas watched his every move, entranced as Daniel kept one blue eye upon him in watery fear. 

“Daniel… “Thomas whispered the name. Daniel did not reply, too frightened to speak. 

“These boys have had their ears chewed off about you.” David said with pride, coming to stand behind Thomas (the namesake) to ruffle his hair affectionately. Thomas could already tell that David wore fatherhood well. That he was good to his boys good for Margret. It filled him with such a sense of relief after the misery of his own childhood. “Bout how brave you are against their domineering grandfather.” 

Thomas noticed both of his nephews visibly bristle. He tried for a firm smile, determined to put their fears to rest. “Don’t worry about him, I’ll handle him.” Thomas assured them both. 

“I think you can imagine how difficult they’ve had it.” David offered. Thomas frowned, looking from his namesake (who was still yawning) to Daniel (who was still cowering). Daniel captivated him the most, the way he didn’t want Thomas to see the left half of his face, as if he were covering up a terrible deformity. 

“Oh yes.” Thomas murmured, eyes locked on Daniel’s watering blue eye, “Yes i know all about how difficult it is.” 

“Daniel is just like you, Thomas.” Margret admitted, and there was fear in her voice as she kept a hand on the back of Daniel’s head, “Get’s bullied all the time, particularly by…” but her voice drifted off. 

Thomas frowned. 

“Thomas, he’s just like you.” Margret repeated, and this time Thomas completely understood. It wasn’t about Daniel being of a different sort… it was about Daniel being bullied. 

He reached out with a gentle hand, and slowly pulled Daniel away from Margret, careful not to frighten him or be too demanding. Just as he feared, Daniel had an oddly shaped bruise upon his cheekbone, a yellowing thing that had probably once been purple with intent but was healing well. It made him look patchy, like he had some kind of skin disease… but Thomas knew exactly what had happened. Nathaniel Barrow had struck his grandson across the face, just as he’d struck his own son… and it made Thomas’ blood boil. 

“Did he give that to you?” Thomas asked Daniel, gesturing slightly to the bruise on Daniel’s cheek. Daniel suddenly looked petrified to answer. 

“Clock fell.” Daniel whimpered, his voice soft and tiny like the fluttering of a baby bird’s newly formed wings. Thomas shook his head, knowing it was a lie. 

“… No it didn’t.” Thomas murmured. Daniel blanched.  
And then burst into noisy tears. 

It was compulsory reaction, a thing that Thomas couldn’t control akin to blinking or breathing as he took Daniel at once into his arms and crushed him against his chest. Daniel was a tiny waif of a thing, so small and slight that Thomas could stand back up and hold him tight without any impediment to his step as he cradled the back of Daniel’s head in his hand. His first instinct was to sooth, to calm Daniel and keep him from panicking himself into a stupor; his second instinct was to find Nathaniel Barrow and beat the ever loving shit out of him. 

But he knew he couldn’t do that, so instead he fumed. 

“Shush now-“ Thomas murmured in Daniel’s ear, “Shush, I won’t let him hurt you. You’re safe with me.” 

Whether or not Daniel believed him was difficult to say so early in their relationship, but he quieted all the same and seemed to almost fall into a temporary sleep as he rocked Daniel back and forth and hummed in his ear. Daisy petted the back of Daniel’s head, feeling how silky his limp dark curls were as Margret sniffed and wiped at her dewy eyes again. 

“Where’s Mr. Barrow?” Daisy asked Margret. She pursed her lips. 

“With our mother.” Margret’s voice broke on the name. “He won’t leave her side.” 

Daisy bowed her head, unsure of what to do. After a brief pause she looked up again and said: “I’l make some tea.” 

It was as good an idea as any. 

“Thank you, Daisy. That would be lovely.” Margret agreed. Thomas knew it was selfish and ugly of him, but in that moment as Daisy left to snoop out the kitchen and its waiting kettle, Thomas couldn’t bring it in him to care about her. In that moment, he only cared for Daniel, sniffling against his collar- for Thomas, his namesake, hiding against his sister’s housecoat. 

Thomas continued to pet Daniel’s curly hair, murmuring against it as he rocked back and forth. 

“She always protected me, and now that she’s gone he’ll just be meaner…” Daniel mumbled, truly miserable. 

“Don’t your worry.” Thomas whispered, stroking his curls with care, “I’ll think of something.” 

But when had his plans ever amounted to much? 

 

With Thomas now at the house, David left to call on the priest. Thomas took care to sit with Daniel and Tommy (as he was now calling his nephew to keep from getting confused), with Margret and Daisy on either side s they nursed a cup of tea. There was no point in trying to open the door to his parent’s bedroom- his father had locked himself in with his mother’s corpse and wasn’t coming out. They had decided the best thing to do was wait for the priest and see if he could talk some sense into the man. 

It probably wouldn’t amount to much but no one wanted to venture into the bedroom. 

Daniel sat upon Thomas’ lap, face buried in Thomas’ vest as he cautiously sucked upon his thumb. Twice now, Margret had tried to get him to stop… Daniel just kept bringing his thumb back to his mouth. The third time Margret had attempted to make him drop his thumb, Thomas had stopped her mid pursuit to allow Daniel peace of mind. There was a time and a place for discipline. Now wasn’t it. 

“Don’t you let him walk all over you.” Thomas cradled Daniels’ head beneath his chin. Tommy sat resting on Margret’s lap, nearly asleep. “You fight back. You tell him to bloody well shove off-“ 

“Language.” Margret warned. Thomas mumbled into Daniel’s hair: 

“Bloody fucking buggering shove off-“ 

Daniel giggled, betraying Thomas’ foul mouth, and Margret smacked him a little upon the arm. Daisy smiled, charmed as Thomas rolled his eyes and kissed Daniel again atop the head. Daniel was soothed by affection, and nearly asleep by this point. Tommy, on his mother’s lap, had passed out. He was snoring softly into her housecoat, his little mouth slightly ajar so that Margret closed it with the nudge of her finger. 

Daniel’s breathing evened out against his chest, Thomas carefully lifted his head to look down, and saw that Daniel’s lovely blue eyes were closed. His thumb had slipped out of his mouth to land moistened upon his lap. Thomas marveled at how angelic he was, so sweet and innocent in his sleep… like a little cherub upon a cloud in an ancient painting. 

The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the silence, and Thomas looked around to see David returning with three men in two. Two of them bore a stretcher between them, the third was the priest. He was not the same man who’d run the local church in his childhood, but he seemed to be aware of their family all the same for when he spotted Margret on the couch he called to her by first name. He did not even acknowledge Thomas. 

“Father.” Margret shook his hand when he offered it in condolences. Clothed in black with slicked gray hair and a gaunt face, he looked like the very vision of death himself. Thomas did not miss the scathing look the priest gave him when he spotted Thomas on the couch. 

So it seemed he knew. Thomas pursed his lips, holding onto Daniel for dear life. 

“Mrs. Baxter.” The priest paused a voice most droll, “I am truly sorry for your loss.” 

Margret bowed her head in meagre penitence. She rose from the couch, taking Tommy with her, and passed him off to David who accepted him with strong arms so that Margret could lead both the priest and his two henchmen into the kitchen. As she left, Thomas heard her say, “I’m glad you’re here, my father is refusing to open the door-“ 

Daisy watched them go, disturbed. 

“He didn’t even look at you.” Daisy muttered, setting her teacup down with a soft ‘clink’. 

Thomas said nothing, instead consoling himself by stroking Daniels’ feathery curls. 

“Why don’t we put them down in your old room.” David offered, nodding to the closed door across the way, “It’s full of rubbish but the bed is still there.” 

“I’ll help-“ Daisy offered, but David shook his head. 

“No, no it’s fine. You uh… help Margret.” David offered, gesturing to the kitchen. Daisy rose up, glad to be of use in any way at all. 

“O’course.” She said, and left at once. 

Thomas rose as carefully as he could from the couch, noticing how light Daniel was as Thomas carried him into his old room. True to memory, the place was still crammed with rubbish, but the path was clear to the bed. Thomas laid Daniel down gently, cradling his head against the pillow as Thomas reached beneath him to pull down the covers. Daniel rolled willingly, and was soon swaddled beneath his old crimson duvet. Tommy was laid down in Danny’s old bed, and so exhausted was he that though he was put down at a semi-awkward angle, he didn’t even seek to move his head. He simply slept, his snoring growing louder as he mouth opened wide again. David took care to close his mouth with a gentle and loving hand. 

David closed the door to the bedroom, effectively sealing the four of them inside. The sound of the door locking in the jam caused Daniel to stir, his blue eyes opening slightly as Thomas continued to stroke his curls. 

“He’s going to be angry-“ Daniel whimpered. Thomas pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him before he could voice his fears. 

“Sh.” Thomas soothed, “You cannot control his anger. All you can do is protect yourself. Run as far as you can, back to your own house or to a friends house- anywhere another adult can see you and protect you. Run to your father. Mmm?” Thomas nodded. Daniel blinked blearily up at him. 

“Can I run to you?” Daniel asked. 

An enormous affection flooded Thomas’ breast, and he answered at once, “Always.” 

Daniel closed his eyes again, and before he could stop himself Thomas pressed the tiniest kiss to Daniel’s furrowed brow. Incredible how he could love someone so strongly when he’d only known Daniel for less than an hour. 

Then again, he’d been waiting to meet Daniel and Tommy since he’d known of their births. 

A tiny knock on the door sent David moving; he opened it to reveal Daisy who looked pensive in the gloom. 

“ Thomas, it’s your father.” Daisy whispered, poking her head into the room. Thomas pursed his lips, hardly surprised, “He won’t let anyone in. Maybe you could talk to him?” 

If Margret and a priest couldn’t get his father to budge, Thomas had no idea what they expected him to be capable of. 

“Better you than me.” David warned, looking down at Daniel sleeping peacefully in Thomas’ old bed, “I still haven’t forgiven him for Daniel ‘dropping a clock’ on his face two weeks ago.” He made quotation marks sarcastically. 

Thomas continued to stroke Daniel’s hair, considering his chances.  
His father would be in a violent mood, destructive and grief stricken… in childhood a moment like this would have spelled doom. But Thomas was thirty years old now, and he had a feeling he could hold his own even if only for a while. 

He rose from the floor, dusting off his knees to exit the bedroom with Daisy. The walked together into the kitchen to find both the priest and his lackeys waiting with Margret at the locked bedroom door. She stood there, biting at her fingernails, nervous as Thomas approached to press a hand against the wood. It was solid oak, not an easy thing to budge. 

Thomas took to a knee again, surveying the doorknob. It was locked from the inside, that much was obvious… but Thomas wondered if he might be able to pick the lock from the outside and gain entry that way. 

“Thomas, do something.” Margret whispered. 

Thomas reached into his trouser pocket, fetching the miniature tool kit he often used to check up on clocks around Downton and opened it upon his knee to fiddle with the keyhole using a pair of tweezers and a small screwdriver. It was hardly eloquent craftsmanship, but after a moment of rummaging Thomas head the softest click that signaled the turning of the lock. He repacked his tool kit, slipping it inside his pocket as he rose up and took the doorknob in hand. 

He looked over his shoulder at the priest who was still regarding him as if he were the scum of the earth. He sneered when their eyes met. 

“Stay out here until I say you can enter.” Thomas said, his tone cold. He opened the door just a crack and slipped through into the dark, shutting the door on the priest’s bitter face. 

Inside the bedroom a foul odor hung in the air like a sheer mist. After three years in the Somme, Thomas knew the smell of death when he came into contact with it, and his stomach flipped as he saw a ghostly figure laying in his parent’s bed. There, splayed out on the pillows, was his mother. Her skin was waxen and gray, her lovely lips blue, and Thomas had to look away momentarily to regain his composure as he wondered at the horror of it all. 

_My god_ , he thought, _How can something this awful still take me by surprise? I thought I was already jaded._

He looked back around, and this time fully registered the room. The drawn curtains, the lone candle burning in its casement, and his father sitting on a chair at his mother's bedside. Hunched over, stroking his wife’s cold brow, Nathaniel Barrow did not seem to register the world around him as he hummed an idle tune and mumbled in his misery. 

“I once had a gown, it was almost new… the daintiest thing, a sweet alice blue… and it wore and it wore and it wore… till it went and it was no more.” 

Hardly a singing voice to write home about, but Thomas wouldn’t hold that against him. 

Thomas came around the edge of the bed, just as he had done only a night ago, but this time as he approached there was no loving embrace to meet him. Only a drunken old man, bitter and hateful at the world. 

“That you, m’boy?” his father mumbled, speech slurred by the nearly finished bottle of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. “M’tommy?” 

He looked around, blinking blearily up at Thomas. Thomas noted his father’s eyes were cherry red at the corner, thick and puffy. He did not want to dawdle on what that meant. 

“Aint she a pretty thing…” His father sighed, reaching out and stroking his mother’s grayed hair to brush it tenderly, “Like a rose bud in May.” 

Thomas had to agree. His mother had always been beautiful, in death she was no less. Grief overtook him in that moment, as he looked upon the face of the woman who loved him so and realized she would never again ask him how his day went or enquire as to his health. No more would she protect him from his father, from the world, from himself, and Thomas slumped upon the edge of the bed to gently clasp one of her cold clammy hands inside his own. Warmth had been there once. Warmth and strength. He brought his mother’s hand into his lap and caressed it lovingly. 

“When did it happen?” Thomas asked. 

“Round ten.” His father replied. He sniffed, “Went out cryin’…. Went in cryin’, went out cryin’-“ he chortled a little at his own ugly joke, “Cryin’ over pain. Cryin’ over Danny… dead DAnny. Cryin’ over you marryin’. Kept tellin’ me… ‘Nathan don’t let him do it’.” 

But there was no humor in his voice now. Only bitter sadness. 

“Daft cow.” his father mumbled softly, but there was no menace in his words. “My daft cow… My Alice.” And he whispered it in such a way that Thomas had to wonder if his father would ever again truly be whole. 

His father rubbed at his face, wiping his eyes as if they contained poison at their edges, “You think you ever loved one of your pretty boys-?” He sneered, “Not the way I loved my Alice. Not the way my Alice loved me.” 

His father had no idea of what he spoke. Knew nothing about Philip, Edward, or Jimmy- sweet and beautiful Jimmy for whom Thomas would gladly give his life. Perfect Jimmy that fucked up atrociously on every level humanly possible and still somehow managed to make him laugh. Laugh deep from his belly, from his core, like he’d never been jaded or felt pain. The fact of the matter was that Thomas felt love on an astounding level for Jimmy; felt it at the very core of his being where none could displace it or shake his faith. It was possible that his father had felt the same about his mother. That his mother had felt the same about his father… but Thomas would never know. His mother was dead and he couldn’t ask him now. The realization gave him a low pang in his stomach. 

It brought back to mind a memory. One of the very few he’d ever had of his mother and father acting in a loving way around one another.

“D’you remember when she bid you to get a head of lettuce…” Thomas murmured, “And you got a head of cabbage?” 

His father looked around at him, perhaps taken aback that Thomas had not gotten offended at his rude comment before. He didn’t seem to recall the memory at first, but then a small smile spread across his heavily lined face. 

“And she just laughed and laughed.” Thomas continued to stroke his mother’s cold hand, “And you yelled at her that you weren’t there for her entertainment.” 

His father shook his head, “She never let me go to market again. Always made you or Margie go.” 

But this tune of phrase seemed to change his father’s mood, and he suddenly grew sour as he muttered, “Oh yes, she always sent you. Wanted you to get as much fresh air as possible.” 

His father pursed his lips, rubbing his face again. When he spoke next it was in a false high voice, scratchy at the edges, “Send Tommy, Nathan, let him have some sun on his face.” 

He shook his head again, “Got too much sun on your face, didn’t you? Started frolicking with all the boys in Ashton-under-Lyne at that La Petite Lapin.” 

Thomas grew gray at the name of his old childhood haunt, amazed that his father had known the name of the pub where he’d spent so many pennies buying artists and writers sandwiches and beer. It made him wonder what else his father knew. If he knew about the time that Mr. Gardener had kissed him so passionately, or the when the entire lot of artists had bought him three ales and then drawn him nude. They’d gazed so intimately at his body, then, hungry and carnivorous as they feverishly sketched each tapered limb. 

The surprise and trepidation must have shown on his face, for his father continue on to say, “Thought we wouldn’t know? Oh we knew. We knew.” 

At this he straightened up and reached blindly for the nearly finished bottle of whiskey. He almost knocked it over, and Thomas watched warily as he took a hearty drink. The smell could practically peel paint. 

“She cried her heart out when she saw you weren’t in your bed. Cried till she passed out. Cried for you.” he added, pointing a spiteful finger at Thomas. Thomas narrowed his eyes at the gust of whiskey that exhaled on his father’s breath. “Tell me this Tommy, cause I’ve always been curious. What did I ever do to you? Eh?” 

The nerve of the question was so staggering that it rendered Thomas mute. He went white with rage, his lips pressed into a thin line to keep every hateful word in. 

“What did I ever do… to make you such a bad child?” His father asked with a snort. 

_He could not kill his father. There was a priest right outside the door who already thought he was a godless sinner. He had to think of Margret, of Danny and Tommy. Of Jimmy who was waiting for him back home. He would be no use to any of them in jail._

Thomas took a slow, deep breath, focusing on an image of Jimmy’s face in his mind. Of Jimmy sleeping so sweetly upon his pillow- somehow the image morphed into Danny as well. As he exhaled, his temper cooled into something malicious and snide- a coat of armor forged in the image of O’Brien who had never let a man rule her no matter the consequences. With one final squeeze to his mother’s cold hand, Thomas rose from the bed and snatched the nearly empty whiskey bottle from his father’s hand. 

His father looked mildly surprised. 

“The priest has come to take her away.” Thomas said, towering over his father as he remained slumped in his chair, “You have to let him. you can’t sleep with a dead body in the bed.” 

“Who said anythin’ about sleepin’.” His father snorted. Thomas didn’t rise to the bait, sniffing at the whiskey bottle distastefully. Christ it was rancid. 

“What’s a matter-?” His father sneered when Thomas practically gagged, “Don’t want a drink? Can’t handle your whiskey? Too manly for you?” 

Thomas still wouldn’t rise to the bait. 

“I’m an alcoholic, like you.” Thomas corrected, “And once I start drinking, I can’t stop. I once drank twenty four bottles of wine in succession, and lost my job over it.” 

Once again, his father looked mildly impressed. Somehow, that pissed Thomas off more than the comment of ‘what did I ever do to you’. 

“Get up.” Thomas snapped, and he took his father under the arm with a free hand to pull him from the chair. “Get up out of your chair.” 

His father staggered, too drunk to put up a fight or understand what was happening. He almost fell into Thomas as Thomas let go to hastily throw open the bedroom window. The entire area smelled of death- it would be nauseating come morning. 

“Go.” Thomas ordered, pushing his father towards the door with a hand to the back of his father’s neck. Thomas let go only to shove the door open, and then pushed his father through into the waiting arms of Margret who was far too sympathetic as she guided their father towards a kitchen chair and helped him to sit down. The priest looked ready to offer his condolences but what he really needed to offer the man was an exorcism. Thomas pushed past, uncaring as he brushed into the priest’s shoulder. 

“Go on in then, do your job.” Thomas spat, bitterly. Daisy, meek at the kitchen sink, watched with wide eyes as Thomas quickly poured out the rest of the whiskey down the drain. Daisy grimaced at the smell. 

“You’re in fer hell, Daisy…” His father mumbled from the kitchen table. Thomas looked over his shoulder, murderous. 

“You don’t talk to her, you hear me?” Thomas spat, a finger up and pointing in his father’s bloodshot face. “You keep your mouth shut till your sober.” 

His father just snorted and mumbled something into the kitchen table, too drunk to be heard properly. Thomas looked back around, and out the kitchen window past which stars gleamed in the sky. He wondered if his mother was among them. If his mother could see him now, and approve of his hard handed techniques. 

“Some coffee might sober him up?” Daisy offered softly. She touched him gently upon the elbow, but Thomas quickly shrugged her off. Thomas didn’t want Daisy touching him anymore, not when Jimmy was waiting for him at home. Daisy looked hurt, but seemed to be trying for understanding, as if this was all a part of Thomas’ grief and not a signal that their hellish courtship was coming to its end. 

“Don’t waste your time.” Thomas muttered. He was certain all the coffee in South America couldn’t help his father now. 

“She always… always spoiled you.” His father was mumbling from the kitchen table as Margret desperately tried to console him. She rubbed his shoulders and hugged at his neck, petted his hair and even kissed his brow. Was she his daughter or his mother? “Spoiled you rotten. You’re rotten cause of her!” His father spat, voice gaining venom. 

Thomas glared at him from the kitchen sink, wishing to god that his situation were only slightly different so that he could unleash hell on the man who had so destroyed his youth. 

“She had a heart of gold. Made yours black. But I beat it out of you, sure enough…” His father burped suddenly. Daisy made tiny nervous noises as Thomas stormed forward, perhaps thinking a fight was about to break out… but Thomas had no intention of fighting tonight. 

His father glowered at him as he leaned over the kitchen table, hands pressed flat to the wood as he glared and gained nerve. Margret was terrified, holding desperately to their father’s neck as if wanting to be a barrier- once again Thomas had no intention of physically fighting. 

“She read to me, and sowed buttons on my trousers, and saved me from you.” Thomas hissed, “It does not surprise me that you find that to be… spoiling… a child. But that’s fine, I was your son. You had every right to hit me.” At this Thomas leaned in a little, voice dropping low so that Daisy could not hear at the kitchen sink, “But Daniel isn’t your son. Daniel is David’s son.. and I promise you this: for every little thing you do to that precious boy, I’ll come up here and do it right back to you.” 

It was a promise he intended to keep. 

“Thomas.” Margret whispered. His eyes flickered up to her, still darkened in a glare. She didn’t seem to know him then, and his heart suddenly ached for the fear in her eyes now directed at him. It seemed she now knew there was darkness in his heart. 

He needed some air. 

“I need some air.” Thomas muttered, raking his fingers through his hair as he turned away from the kitchen table and left. The backyard was his best sanctuary now, and Thomas headed for it at a hot pace praying Daisy wouldn’t follow. Down the stairs he went, even as he heard the priest exit his parent’s bedroom saying something about ‘ascended souls’ and ‘angelic dispositions’. 

They knew nothing of his mother. 

Out the back door Thomas went and into the summer night air. It might have felt soothing at one point in time, but now it only felt uncomfortable and muggy. His skin was too tight, his clothing too rough on his skin. He had a sudden burning desire to scratch and itch at his skin to no avail. 

He passed an oak tree in whose branches he’d often climbed as a child; his mother had fished him out for supper to make sure he’d washed his hands. 

Thomas kept walking. 

Soon the grass beneath his feet was unclipped, and weeds cropped up until the heather took over entirely. Thomas crossed through the back alley of a neighborhood that hadn’t even been in existence in his youth; on the other side he found the outskirts of a meagre forest waiting. On the other side of this wood Thomas had once found a farmer’s cow pond; it was difficult to know whether it would still be there now. He could hear feet crunching on gravel behind him and knew that he was being followed. It was probably Daisy, which gave him no end of grief. Exhausted from a full days work and the night’s lack of rest, Thomas crumpled at the edge of the woodland just as tall trees overtook the housing skyline. In the shade of a pine, he hid from view, his livery scraping against rough bark as he slowly slumped onto the ground. 

The footsteps kept approaching. 

“Go away.” Thomas mumbled, grief tightening his voice. The footsteps paused, and Thomas momentarily wondered allowed himself the delusional hope he would be left in peace until a familiar charismatic voice touched upon the air… soft like the whisp of an angel’s breath. 

“Would you really send me away, Mr. Barrow? When I’ve come so far to see you?” 

Thomas looked up, and with a rushing swooping sense of relief he saw it was not Daisy that had followed him out into the dark but Jimmy. Jimmy, who had somehow appeared out of no where to come to Thomas in his hour of need. 

“Jimmy?” Thomas whispered, unsure if he was seeing a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep or an actual honest to goodness person. 

He supposed the fact that Jimmy was wearing the same tawny suit as earlier could be taken either way. 

“Snuck on the train. Got a room at the inn.” Jimmy explained, hooking a thumb over his shoulder with an easy smile. Thomas groaned, extending both his hands out as Jimmy reached down to lock their fingers. He did not so much guide Jimmy as he did pull, and Jimmy tumbled down on both knees to take Thomas in his arms. For a moment they simply sat there, rocking and taking comfort in one another, and by the time that Jimmy pulled back, his shirt collar was wet. 

Thomas did not know what upset him more. The fact that his mother was dead or the fact that Daniel was so clearly being abused and there was nothing Thomas could do to stop it without risking his way into the house in the first place. Those tiny bruises peppering Daniel’s cherub face were as damning to him as poison, and it put an acidic taste in his mouth as he stroked Jimmy’s blond curls. 

“I couldn’t save her and I can’t save him.” Thomas whispered, a man defeated. Jimmy shook his head at once, eager to dispel the notion before it cemented in Thomas’ mind. 

“We’re all gonna die, Thomas.” Jimmy reminded him, “At least she got to see you, got to talk to you one last time. That’s a blessing innit?” 

This was true. 

“I never got that.” Jimmy admitted, and there was the softest edge of bitterness in his voice. He sat beside Thomas, thigh to thigh with him in the dark of the forest’s edge. “Me mum and I were arguing about my grandfather… kept tellin’ her he was gonna kill me. She told me to take a walk. When I came back…” Jimmy tilted his head, gold curls falling in front of his lovely aubergine eyes. “She died and I was on a walk. Just… moseying through the heather.” 

For a moment neither of them spoke, a heavy weight upon their chests as they pondered their ugly circumstances. From Daisy Mason to Nathaniel Barrow, none of this was easy, and suddenly Thomas found himself longing for the simpler days when it had just been the pair of them before Anstruther’s visit. Jimmy hadn’t been able to acknowledge his feelings fully but they’d still been together and left to their own devices. 

“Thank god she got to be with you.” Jimmy said at long last, “That’s as it should be, right?” 

Thomas nodded. He didn’t have much to thank god for… but he’d thank god for that. 

“An’ at least now, she’s free.” Jimmy carried on. Thomas sniffed at the sentiment. “Up there.” Jimmy threw a hand up, gesturing aimlessly towards the starry heavens that drifted in and out of view with clouds. The threat of rain was imminent; by morning Stockport would no doubt be drenched. 

“I dunno.” Jimmy sighed, “I’m not a philosopher.” 

But so moved was Thomas by Jimmy’s sweetness and compassion that he couldn’t care if Jimmy was a philosopher, a jazz-musician, a valet, or a damn member of parliament. Thomas loved him all the same. 

“You’ll do.” Thomas whispered, and as he turned his head to the side to look Jimmy square in the face, he leaned in just a tad and allowed Jimmy to kiss him on the lips. 

It was dangerous, to be loving in public, but it was past midnight on the edge of an abandoned wood and Thomas was confused with grief. Jimmy’s lips were warm and soft, like a comforting duvet after a long cold day of work. Thomas wanted to nestle between them and remain there undisturbed for a century. To kiss Jimmy as one might paint a painting or write a novel… with art and finesse. He wanted to hide in Jimmy’s love until they were left to their own devices once more. Until Daisy and Nathaniel and everyone else simply vanished to let them be. Consequences be hanged. 

But consequences was staring at Thomas from the opening of the alley, watching in horror as he threaded a hand through Jimmy’s hair and anchored himself into a deeper kiss. Consequence was trembling, frightened by the fearful predicament she now saw to the marriage she’d been sure was going to bring her such happiness. Consequence didn’t know why, but somehow in the face of infidelity, she couldn’t cry out or confront. Instead, all she could do was watch from the shadows heartbroken as Jimmy Kent kissed her fiancé fiercely upon the lips… as if he had any right. 

Daisy felt a wave of nausea overtake her, and had to turn away. 

~*~

That night, Thomas slept in his old bedroom with Daniel and Tommy. Determined to keep them from harm, Thomas barred the door to the living room and kept silent watch over the pair of them as midnight slowly drifted into a cold gray dawn. Daisy went with Margret and David back to their own house, which was just next door above a shoe cobbler’s shop. For some reason, when Thomas had returned (after making sure Jimmy got safely back to the local inn) Daisy was in a strange mood. She wouldn’t look at Thomas, wouldn’t speak a word, and Thomas wondered if she’d been sufficiently scared off after watching his father drunkenly cling to a dead body. There was nothing to do now but try and appease her, assure her that his family wasn’t completely bat-shit insane. For all his comforting, she did not answer him and instead sipped on a stale mug of coffee while Margret and David went over funeral preparations and his father slept off the booze. 

Thomas could not enter Stockport’s church, was forbidden on the property grounds, and despite how both Daisy and Margret pleaded in Thomas’ defense he was warned on no uncertain terms that should he attempt to show up for his own mother’s funeral, he would be face dire consequences. Thomas knew when to expect a bobby, and kept his head low as Saturday rolled around and his mother’s funeral was held. Daisy went in his place instead, borrowing a dress from Margret and helping her to watch the boys. Jimmy was somewhere in Stockport, wandering about after Thomas had met him in a local pub and begged him to keep his head down and away from the church. The last thing he needed was to avoid trouble only to have Jimmy fall into it. 

Thomas attempted to be angry at his inability to go to the funeral, but couldn’t find the energy within him to summon the emotion. At best, he felt mild contempt for society and the fact that he couldn’t stand among the bereaved and be consoled for his loss like his sobbing sister or his dazed father. The community of Stockport offered him no shelter in his time of need, and so Thomas decided to find his solace in the one place that had always offered him respite: nature. 

In the daylight, he found that the wooded area he’d sought refuge in was actually much thinner than he’d thought at first. The dark of night had acted as a cloak, hiding the bare truth that much of the forest had been taken out by new housing communities built up in the years of Thomas’ absence. The farmer’s pond on the other side still remained, and Thomas ventured out to it aimlessly, wandering with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his olive vest unbuttoned as the summer wind blew through his hair. Without brilliantine to hold it back, it covered his eyes and shaded his face. The sun was hidden behind a veil of darkening clouds; each quip of wind carried a slightly cold edge to it. The wind made the high grasses of the pond side rustle, and as they bowed back Thomas was given view of the very same pond in which he’d nearly drowned at the tender age of eight. 

It had certainly looked alot bigger then, or perhaps he’d just been smaller, and Thomas noted that the pier on which he’d sought shelter was still standing though it looked rickety. Throwing chance to the wind, Thomas stepped onto the pier and headed to the very edge of the dock to look out over the pond. The water rippled in the wind, restless. 

He crouched down to kneel upon the pier, reaching out to touch the water and test its temperature. Despite the summer month, its depths felt frigid. 

Thomas closed his eyes, allowing his fingers to slide across the icy surface.  
It had been cold then too. 

~*~

_The ground beneath him was riddled with varmint holes covered by weeds as tall as his shoulders. He stumbled from time to time, unable to see his way in the dark as he ran for his life from his father._

_Blood in his mouth, in his hair, on his face. Blood everywhere. Blood from his father’s hands as he beat him without mercy. Without pause._

_“Thomas!” His mother screamed, tailing after him as fast as she could in her many skirts. She’d not even bothered to grab a lamp, chasing him from his father’s abusive grip and out of the house. Thomas didn’t even know where he was running to- only that he could not stop lest he suffer more pain and punishment at his father’s hands. “Thomas, come back!”_

_The field suddenly turned into a lake- a farmer’s pond where cows often drank in the mid-day heat. A tiny pier was the only addition, something for a lone fisherman to take refuge on though there were surely not any fish in this pond worth eating. Without further ado, Thomas flung himself into the pond in a fit of desperation. Cold murky water flushed over his eyes, nose, and mouth. It blinded him, choked him, and he thrashed in the pond losing both his shoes to the depths below as he kicked hard to stay afloat. It was freezing cold, and made the weak muscles in his weedy arms and legs cramp. In an attempt to keep from drowning, Thomas desperately waded over to a large boulder that jutted out near far edge of the lake. It was still quite deep, and his feet couldn’t touch the bottom as he floundered with wild hands to grab at the slippery sides. He held fast to the rock, coughing and spluttering as more pond water invaded his mouth and nose. He wanted to be sick from the foul taste of it._

_“Thomas!” His mother had finally caught up to him, sliding to a halt upon the rickety pier to gape at him across the pond. Her black braids swung loose now, yanked free of their casement by her chase. “What are you doing, cricket? Come back over here or you’ll catch your death!” She pleaded, bunching her skirts up in her hands as she gestured out to him fruitlessly._

_“Good!” Thomas wailed, his emotions spiraling as he thought of the beating that would surely await him back at the house once his father saw that he’d jumped into the pond. “I hope I catch my death! I hope we all catch our death! I hope every last one of us dies!” And with that he burst into angry emotional tears, sobbing hard into the face of the rock so that it was suddenly wet with both freezing pond water and hot salty tears._

_Over his shoulder, Thomas was unaware that his mother was taking matters into her own hands._

_“Mother help me.” She muttered to the sky as she undid her apron and went to tugging off the back of her starched navy dress. it slipped from her shoulders in the cool night air, revealing miles of beautiful porcelain skin covered by pantaloons and a chemise over which a tight corset was bound. She unlaced it with care, finally free to bend over and undo her shoes, and now in nothing but her white underclothes she cursed the sky with a final “I must be mad” before jumping straight into the water._

_A massive splash resounded through the air as his mother suddenly re appeared at the surface of the water, kicking and trashing in horror at how bloody cold it was._

_“Oh!” She shrieked in dismay as Thomas cried and clung to the rock, “Oh lord it’s cold! How can you stand it?!” She demanded. Thomas had no answers for her, terrified as she began to swim across the pond in long commanding strides. She’d soon reach him and then he’d be in for it! He wailed louder as she approached, unable to fathom the horror of being beaten by his own mother- the one he loved best. if she hit him, he’d never recover from it. Would never be able to forget the shame of it._

_“No, don’t come near me-!” Thomas wailed into the rock as his mother finally reached him, “Don’t come near me, you’re going to hit me!”_

_But this only angered his mother. She berated him at once, “Thomas-!” and without another word grabbed him off the rock to hoist him back into the water. She swam with a strength Thomas had not known she’d possessed, her graceful legs kicking out beneath them both as she took them back to the pier and rounded the bank. They collapsed onto the sun-aged wood, and sought coverage beneath her cage crinoline that was still draping in the hangings of her navy dress. There, the cold could not get to them, and Thomas was suddenly cradled in his mother’s damp arms as she brushed her wet black hair out of her face and looked down on him disgruntled._

_Thomas did not know whether to feel frightened or relieved; he waited with baited breath to see what his mother might do._

_“Now.” His mother rubbed his arms and chest, her pantaloons and chemise practically see through from the water. He could see the swell of her bosom, the dusky rose of her nipples, erect against the damp cloth of her undergarments. The pair of them were freezing, teeth on the verge of chattering as they clung to one another for warmth. “That’s a little better, yes? We can hide in here for a while.”_

_At this, his mother looked over her shoulder to her cage crinoline, observing the iron bands of its firm underside. “At least until the bobbies come to arrest me for public indecency.”_

_The idea of his mother being arrested horrified him, and Thomas began to weep once more out of sheer exhaustion against his mother’s bosom. She cradled him to her chest, wrapping her arms about him in a firm embrace as she kissed him sweetly upon the head._

_“I hate him.” Thomas admitted. “I’ll never go back, never! I didn’t even do anything and he hit me!” and suddenly Thomas thought of church and Father Henry, of how the pastor had always warned him of demons who might come to pinch at his soul in the middle of the night._

_He looked up at his mother, eyes stricken in panic, “He’s the devil! You’re the devil’s wife!”_

_But this angered his mother, and without warning she popped him in the cheek. It horrified him, though the hit was nothing like he was used to from his father. When his father beat him, it felt like a hammer was falling against his skin. It was less about punishment and more about pain. His mother had never struck him before, and to be fair he could hardly call one smack on the cheek a ‘strike’, but her little pop was more punishing and damning than any blow Thomas had received from his father in the past, and he wailed against her neck as shame washed hot and thick over him. He wished in that moment that he could be a good son. That he could please his parents, and not be hit anymore._

_Why had he been born so foul?_

_“You do not talk about your father like that!” His mother snapped, but after a moment her anger ebbed away and all that was left was Thomas sniveling against her neck and the soft strokes that she petted through his wet hair._

_“When I was sixteen, your father was working as an apprentice to your grandfather.” His mother said. Thomas paused, mid-snivel, his curiosity piked by his mother speaking of the past. It was odd to imagine her as sixteen; only a month ago they’d celebrated her twenty fourth birthday. “and every Sunday at market he’d see me selling my father’s crops at our family stall. He’d also see me with marks on my hands and arms.”_

_Thomas sniffed, quiet._

_“I thought no one could notice, because my sleeves were so long, but your father saw. And do you know what he did?” She asked. Thomas shook his head, looking up at the underside of her fine chin. She was smiling._

_“In total silence, without a word to my face, he brought me flowers, and made me little hearts out of clock parts, and paid double for the crops… and wouldn’t take a cent of it back.” She laughed a little at the fond memory before carrying on, “It took me about a heartbeat to realize he was in love— it took my father three months. Because you see, I was already engaged.”_

_This amazed Thomas to think of his mother with another man besides his father. He looked up at her again in wonder, and she nodded down at him sagely, “Oh yes. I was engaged to another farmer’s son. He was an ugly, stupid man that I couldn’t stand…”_

_She smiled, stroking Thomas’ hair as she spoke, “Your father was so smart and so handsome. By my father detested him. Said he was too intelligent. A fop, he called him. Honestly, I don’t think he even knew how to spell fop.”_

_“F-o-p.” Thomas mumbled against his mother’s damp chemise. She nodded, curling her legs a little better beneath them so that he was sitting upon her lap._

_“One day I came home from market with twice the money for our goods. My father caught me putting away the extra in a jar. I had been saving up the pennies to leave. I was planning on getting out and running away… and he said to me ‘Alice Graham, are you whoring yourself out?’.” His mother snorted at this in clear disdain, shaking her head. “He thought your father was paying to touch me. Can you imagine?”_

_Thomas said nothing, listening with rapt attention._

_“I denied it but he didn’t believe me. And do you know what he did? He locked me in the basement with the rats.”_

_Thomas shuddered at the thought of mold and cobwebs, of rats and cockroaches crawling over his skin. Over his mother’s skin. He ran his hands along her arms, feeling how smooth and strong they were. Her skin was as white as milk._

_“Oh it was awful.” She sighed, “A full week I was down there, and I cried everyday and begged to be let out. But my father wouldn’t listen. Sunday came around and I didn’t go to market, how could I locked up?” She shrugged, “And do you know what your father did?”_

_Suddenly humor was creeping into her voice. She was even beginning to laugh, “He-“ she paused, laughing some more. “He came right up to my house, and broke down the front door. He beat up, in succession-“ she laughed again, “In succession… my two older brothers, my uncle, my father, and my fiancé.”_

_Thomas could see it. His father was like a tank, particularly when properly motivated_. 

_“He goes to the cellar door, and releases me from my prison. There I was in rags, utterly filthy, covered in dirt and what have you… rats for friends… and he says to me ‘Are you ready?’.” His mother paused. “Those were the first words your father ever spoke to me. ‘Are you ready?’… All that time in the market, he’d never said a word. All those hearts, and flowers, not a single thing. Busts into my house, knocks out all my male relatives… ‘Are you ready?’.” She snorted_. 

_“I wed him the very next day.” She declared, and there was soft pride in her voice, “I had to wash my hair first.”_

_She paused, brushing the hair back from Thomas’ face so that they could look at one another more clearly. Not for the first time, Thomas remarked just how beautiful his mother was. In school they often looked at the principle’s books, at fine pieces of art that were hung in famous museums. The women were naked, beautiful and lovely with long golden hair… but none of them were as fine as his mother. Thomas wasn’t interested in kissing girls or giving them valentines, but he’d always kiss his mother. He’d always give his mother a valentine. She was the most beautiful lady in all the world_. 

_“I moved in with him, and your grandmother and grandfather…” His mother explained, “And for a year, he saved up every penny he earned to take over the clock shop from your grandfather. He did it with such pride, such immense pride… to provide for me. And when you and your sister were born nine months later, you were the first one he held.” His mother whispered in his ear. It was almost like a lullaby. Thomas closed his eyes against her breast, her skin now heated to the touch and warming his face_. 

_“He held you in his arms, and he loved you with such immense pride. You were the first born, and the first boy. He loves you, Thomas. He loves you so much.”_

_She rocked him back and forth for a moment, but Thomas was still discontent. If his father loved him ‘so much’ then why did he strike Thomas? Why did he hit him without reason, beat him until his skin was peppered with bruises?_

_“Then why does he hit me?” Thomas asked._

_“Because…” His mother fished for the right words, but couldn’t find them for a moment. Her disappointment was evident in her voice. “Because he wants so badly for you to succeed, because he’s scared you’re going to be hurt, or humiliated.” She paused at this, continuing to rock him, “The world can be very unforgiving, but that is not your main agenda. Yours it to find happiness, cherish it, and protect it as your father does. Your father couldn’t stop my father from beating me or locking me in the basement… but he could stop it from continuing a day past that fateful Sunday market.”_

_She was starting to laugh again. “Are you ready?” She parroted the old line, “Good lord, what a man… Didn’t even ask me to marry him. Just asked me if I was ready to marry him.” And at this she laughed gayly._

_“Did you even like him?” Thomas asked in wonder. His mother looked down on him sweetly, as she always did when he asked about her feelings or how her day had gone._

_“No.” His mother corrected him gently, “I loved him. There is a difference. Your father may not like you, but he loves you.”_

_“S’no excuse to hit me.” Thomas mumbled, sniffing heartily_. 

_“No. It’s not.” his mother agreed, and she stroked his cheek where a thick purple bruise was beginning to form from his earlier assault. The blood had stemmed from his nose and mouth. “But you just hit him right back. That’ll show him.” And at this she kissed him upon the forehead_. 

_Quite suddenly, the cage crinoline was lifted up on its side, and both Thomas and his mother looked around in a start to see his father of all people looking on them with disgruntled amazement. His sharp jaw and handsome nose were lit up by the golden glow of a lantern that he carried_.

_“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded. His mother let out a startled yelp, furious as she grabbed the edge of the cage crinoline from his hand and yanked it back down to conceal her dignity_. 

_“Put my dress back down!” She cried out, scandalized. Thomas hid against her breast with wide eyes, clutching to her in fear that he might be torn away, “Honestly, what’s wrong with you? Were you raised in a barn?”_

_“Get out from under there.” His father snapped_. 

_“I will not!” His mother shrieked, clapping a hand to her heaving breast at the mere suggestion, “In my chemise and pantaloons are you mad?!”_

_“I’m not talking to you, Alice!” His father snapped, his tone becoming surprisingly stern. the cage crinoline was lifted up again and Thomas’ father reached in with a rogue hand to swipe at Thomas’ arm. He snatched Thomas right from his mother’s arms, dragging him out from under the warm protective covering of the crinoline and out into the cold night air. Thomas shivered, teeth chattering as his father let the cage crinoline fall back down and grabbed him by both shoulders. Petrified, Thomas quaked underneath his father’s commanding grip and waited for the blow to fall_. 

_“When I told you to look to girls, I didn’t mean your mother!” His father snapped. Thomas whimpered, prompting his mother to yell out “Nathan, don’t you be hard on him!” from under her cage crinoline. There was a shifting of fabric as she clearly made to redress under the cover_. 

_“What were you doing under there, huh?” His father demanded, shaking him a little, “You think that’s any place for a boy to be? Eh? Underneath his mother’s crinoline?”_

_But this only caused a stab of bitter confusion to rip through Thomas because as far as he was concerned there was no where on earth that his father would agree for him to ‘be’. Thomas could do nothing right, in his father’s eyes_. 

_“Would you rather I be under your crinoline instead?” Thomas demanded angrily_. 

_A flash of outrage crossed his father’s face, the only warning Thomas got before his father reared back and slapped him hard across the face. His cheek burned with the sting, and Thomas burst into noisy tears at the sudden fresh pain as he began to wriggle and lash out at his father. He punched and kicked, meagre limbs barely doing any damage, but his father struggled with him none the less, trying to keep him still_. 

_“Stop hitting me!” Thomas screamed at the top of his lungs_. 

_“You two-!” His mother cried out exasperatedly as she finally re appeared, popping up out of her crinoline like a bizarre toy with her corset refastened. She quickly shrugged on the top of her navy dress, lacing it up as fast as her nimble fingers could fly. In all her hubbub she’d forgotten her shoes; with her corset now back on she’d have to go barefoot_. 

_“I hate you! I hate you!” Thomas screeched, and he’d never meant it more in his life. He hated his father: his fists, his glare, his gritted teeth and his surly attitude. He hated that other children had fathers who loved them, who kissed them and bought them sweets. Why couldn’t he have a father like that? Why couldn’t his father love him? Kiss him? Verbally confide that he loved Thomas and wanted nothing but the best for him… the bastard_. 

_“I’m not doing anything wrong and you still hit me!” Thomas screamed right into his father’s face. He didn’t even blanche, bitter at Thomas’ wild behavior. “That’s all you ever do is hit me! Have you ever touched me and not hit me!?”_

_“Stop-!” His father spat, trying to hold him still even as Thomas thrashed too and fro. “You little wet bastard-!”_

_Clearly hearing Thomas be called a ‘bastard’ was more than his mother could stand. Finally re-clothed, she made an ugly noise in her throat and without further ado shoved his father hard off the pier. He crashed into the cold pond water, thrashing angrily as he gargled and spluttered. His mother huffed, self-righteous in her anger as she folded her arms over her chest_. 

_“There.” She declared as his father resurfaced and gaped agog at her. “Now we’re all wet bastards.”_

_His father spat out a mouth full of pond water, pushing his black hair out of his face and glowering as his mother desperately bit down a laugh. Thomas watched amazed, as his father merely sniffed and checked his vest pocket for his watch. He held it up to his ear and rolled his eyes_. 

_“You probably ruined my watch.” Was all he said_. 

_“You have twenty more.” His mother replied; it was an accurate statement_. 

_Thomas sniffed, still bitter at being slapped for nothing_. 

_“You didn’t even ask her to marry you.” Thomas spat. His father did a double take, alarmed by Thomas sudden in depth knowledge of life before his existence, “You just asked her if she was ‘ready’! That’s not how it’s done you numpty!” Thomas yelled_. 

_“You give me any more lip and you’ll get a slap!” His father warned_. 

_“That’s all you ever do is slap me!” Thomas screamed back. He grabbed his mother’s shoe from the dock and chucked it hard at his father’s head. It bounced off, causing his mother to cry out in shock at his brash behavior. His father wouldn’t stand for it, outraged by his behavior, and jumped up amid the pond water to grab hard at Thomas’ ankle. Thomas was pulled right off the dock, slipping hard to smack his head against the pier and falling back into the cold water as his father drug him under. He screamed and instantly regretted it as murky water rushed into his mouth. Gagging and choking beneath the surface, Thomas writhed in his father’s grip- when he resurfaced again, locked in a bear hug, Thomas was coughing in loud choking gasps that instantly grabbed his mother’s attention_. 

_“Get my shoe- what’s wrong with you, Thomas? You don’t throw things at your father!”_

_His father was truly the multitasker, snagging his mother’s floating shoe from the surface of the pond to chuck it back up onto the pier while he hung onto Thomas and kept him from getting away. Thomas shivered in the water, feeling colder than ever despite being locked against his father’s muscled chest. Thomas struggled left and right, kicking hard, so that his father’s legs were momentarily lost beneath them and they both fell into the water. His father had to kick off against the dirty pond bottom to get them back to the surface, and as they resurfaced again Thomas cried in fear. He might very well drown-!_

_“For gods sake, Nathan!” His mother begged, “You’re going to drown him and not mean to! Stop!” But they weren’t listening to her. Thomas went under the water again- when he resurfaced this time he vomited a mouth full of water, howling in agony as his stomach cramped and clenched. “STOP!”_

_Thomas’ father held him tight around the middle, keeping him from slipping back beneath the waves. Thomas vomited, this time acid coming up as he wailed for his mother. She flung a hand out for him from the pier, getting down on her belly (no small feat with a corset on) to try and reach out as far as she could while still clinging to the wood. He was just out of her reach._

_“He’s freezing, Nathan! Please!” His mother beseeched him_. 

_“He needs to cool down-“ His father would hear none of it, holding Thomas even as he vomited for a third time. This time nothing came up, a dry heave that left his breathless and trembling_. 

_“Yes, but not to death!” His mother’s hand twisted and furled in the empty air. “Please!”_

_Thomas reached out for his mother, but even as he did his father turned so that Thomas was facing the opposite direction and could now no longer reach her hand. He burst into frustrated tears_. 

_“Cry, that’s all you do is cry!” His father snarled, utterly disgusted as snot and tears dripped down Thomas’ pale face, “If I were you my father would have beaten me back and blue-!”_

_“But you already do!” Thomas howled_. 

_“You want me to give you something to cry about? I’ll keep you out here all night!” His father spat_. 

_The idea of spending all night out here in the dark filled Thomas with an ugly sense of dread. He’d surely catch his death- all sorts of bugs and creatures would be crawling in his clothes and hair-!_

_“I bet you wish I were dead!” Thomas hiccuped. This just irritated his father more_. 

_“No!” He snarled at once, “I wish you’d behave! You’re the worst behaved child in the history of the England!”_

_“You want me to die!” Thomas howled, the horrible weight of his father’s anger and disappointment crushing him like an ant beneath a boot, “You want me to die and then you’ll tell everyone I just drowned to save your skin! You want to lock me in the cellar with rats!”_

_At once, things shifted_. 

_Though Thomas could not see it, his father’s face instantly slackened with self-awareness. Perhaps he hadn’t realized mid-act just how wild they’d gotten out in a freezing pond in the middle of the night. Perhaps he’d not been looking properly at his wife’s face, hadn’t seen the pain and fear as she reached out desperately to bring their child back to shore. Perhaps in his intent to be a good father, to be a strong head of his family, he’d forgotten what it actually meant to be a good father_. 

_It certainly jarred him, to be remembered of the ugliest day of his life by his eight year old son. To suddenly see the unnerving similarities between himself and the man who had nearly killed his wife_. 

_Nathaniel Barrow’s face was suddenly set like stone. His wife paled, fearful for what might come next_. 

_Thomas was lifted out of the water by his father, right up into his arms so that Thomas could cling to his neck in a desperate attempt to get out of the cold. Wading back to shore, His father carried them both back onto dry land and reached out for his mother with a spare hand_. 

_“Give me your apron.” He commanded. She untied it from her waist and handed it over at once. He took it and wrapped it around Thomas like a makeshift blanket, covering him up even as he shivered and trembled. He’d never been cared for in such a way, tended to by his father instead of his mother. It shocked him into stillness and silence, into meek surrender as he buried his face into his father’s shoulder and hugged him tight about the neck_. 

_“Take the lantern.” His father commanded. Picking up her shoes with one hand and carrying the lantern in the other, his mother followed them back to the house. They walked the whole way in silence, a family of ghosts in the night._

~*~

Thomas sighed, the memory slipping from the surface of his mind as he turned his head upon the warm wood of the pier and allowed the wood to sooth his cheek. At some point he must have laid down to bask in the meagre sun. He could almost go to sleep here, and nearly did so until he felt the planks of the pier shifting beneath his head and knew someone else was walking upon them. 

He blinked open an eye, gazing up into the haze of the clouded sun to see a blonde haired blue eyed wonder looking back down at him. 

It was the small things that made life bearable. 

Jimmy Kent’s hair blew in the summer wind, tossed and turned as the breeze shifted and scanned towards the south. Crouching down by Thomas’ side, Jimmy sat upon the pier and experimentally put his hand over the edge towards the water so that he could dabble his fingers beneath the surface to test the temperature. 

“When I was eight, my mother saved me from drowning in this very pond.” Thomas spoke up. Jimmy shuddered at the touch of the water, bristling as he pulled his hand back. 

“Cor, it’s freezing.” Jimmy muttered. 

“Told me how… her father had locked her in the cellar with rats.” 

Jimmy sighed, dragging his feet out from under him to lay back against the pier, side by side with Thomas. Thomas rolled his face to look at Jimmy, marveling at how truly beautiful he was in the sun. Part of him wished life was like this always: solitude with Jimmy in the sunny wilderness. Out here, away from society and others, it was easy to imagine that they lived in a fair universe. That they could not be condemned or banished for their love. That doctor’s offices didn’t exist to shock the shit out of men like them- that butler’s were prejudiced and family members weren’t abusive. 

But Thomas had nearly been drowned in this pond, and Thomas knew better. 

“Did your father ever hit you?” Thomas asked, unsure if he wanted to know the answer. Jimmy shook his head, lolling upon the wood with his golden hair for a pillow as he toyed at a button upon Thomas’ chest. 

“Nah.” Jimmy said. Thomas closed his eyes as Jimmy stroked his stomach with feather light caresses, “Taught me how to play cards and dance. Mum taught me how to play piano. Grandfather thought it were right stupid. Said I were more of a girl than me cousins.” 

Thomas extended a hand, bending his elbow just a hair so that his fingers could reach Jimmy’s hair which he played with, curling a frond about a finger only to let it spring back. 

“My mum…. I think she knew I were different.” Jimmy mused. “She was always so saucy. Cut all her hair off in a curl. Dad thought she were mad.” 

Thomas smiled at the concept, remembering that frank and vivacious woman in Jimmy’s photograph. It was clear whom he’d inherited his peppery personality from. 

“I don’t think my mother ever cut her hair in her life.” Thomas admitted; it had always been long. Long, black, and curly… like a velvet curtain he could hide behind and block out all the garish light with. 

“…D’you want to go swimming?” Jimmy suddenly asked. Thomas popped an eye open, glaring dully at the love of his life. What a numpty. 

“Hell no.” He sneered, which only made Jimmy giggle a little in retort, “Not when it’s this cold, we’ll freeze t’death, Jimmy.” 

“Did you plan to live forever?” Jimmy replied, jaunting an eyebrow. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow back, and without further ado pushed Jimmy hard in the side to knock him right off the pier and into the water. Jimmy screamed, making Thomas burst into laughter as water flew up all around him and soaked the sun-parched wood. Jimmy floundered and gargled in the water, resurfacing with a howl of agony that was hardly justified even with the cold temperature of the water. Jimmy sounded like an alley cat being gutted with a fishing knife. 

“Jesus buggering fuck!” Jimmy screamed. Thomas rolled up onto his elbows, looking over the edge of the pier to see Jimmy bobbed in the water with a bit of pond muck clinging to his golden hair. He was furious, cheeks blotched in bright red as he seethed at Thomas. Thomas grinned, perching his chin upon his hand. “Are you trying to kill me?!” He demanded in a rage. 

“Did you plan to live forever?” Thomas parroted. 

“You little shit-!” Jimmy spat, and without further ado he launched himself right out of the water to grab Thomas hard by both arms. He tugged him overboard, and this time Thomas went willingly head first into the waves. It was pitch black beneath, obscured by pond muck Jimmy had kicked up in his struggle. Thomas touched bottom with his hands, his leather glove suddenly becoming stuffed with squelching mud as he pushed hard to right himself and return to the surface. Jimmy was right, it was god damn freezing, and suddenly his yowl made a lot more sense as Thomas broke back through waves to cough into the frigid air. When had it gotten so damn cold? It had been sweltering only seconds before-! 

Thomas blew pond water out of his nose, wiping quickly as this face and pushing his hair back as he blinked in the dazzling sunlight. Jimmy was still fuming, up to his neck in pond water and hardly pleased about any of it. 

“God it’s so cold, how can you stand it?” Jimmy demanded.  
Thomas blanched, remembering his mother’s kindness. 

She’d leapt in without a second thought to her chemise or the weather- had dove right into the water despite it being frigid October and in the middle of the night. The water had been ten times colder then, but she’d still fought her way across the pond to grab him off the far boulder. Beneath her cage crinoline, Thomas had felt cocooned, almost as if he were an infant again swaddled next to her bosom. Listening to her story, burying his face in her breast, he’d been so safe. So loved. 

No one had ever loved him like her. That unconditional adoring love of a mother- iron willed and un-shiftable in an ever changing world. 

And now she was dead. 

Thomas felt a knot form in his throat and blinked down at the water, trying to dispel the burning sensation beneath his eyes. He was surprised when he felt Jimmy reach out for him beneath the water, tugging him back to shore even as the knot in his throat grew larger. He didn’t know what distressed him more… the fact that his mother was dead or the fact that they’d gotten so little time together in life. Part of him wondered what she would have said if she’d known about Philip or Edward; if he’d told her about the disastrous incident of 1920, or the electrotherapy. 

He supposed he’d never know now. 

Thomas had to stop, unable to stagger out of the water as his emotions took over and forced him to lean against the soggy legs of the pier. Jimmy waited with him, a gentle and understanding hand upon Thomas’ back as Thomas began to weep into the wood, sniveling and whining into his mud drenched hands till his face was as dirty as his clothes. 

“You want to sit here and freeze to death, that’s just fine.” Jimmy whispered, and there was no cynicism in his normally cocky voice as he took Thomas underneath the rib cage to pull him to his chest. Thomas leaned into Jimmy at once, utterly grateful for his presence in that moment. It was exactly the right balm for his wound- like a miracle tonic that could cure any ail as he whimpered into the juncture of Jimmy’s shoulder and neck. “I won’t take issue.” 

He shuddered, sniffing. “She was the first person… to ever be kind to me. The first of eight.” 

“Eight, eh?” Jimmy mumbled his breath tickling the back of Thomas’ ear as he whispered into Thomas’ mucky hair, “Long list. You keep em tallied in your pocket book?” 

“Her, Mr. Burland, Edward Courtenay, Lady Sybil, Mrs. Hughes, Phyllis Baxter, John Bates… and you.” Thomas finished. He looked up to Jimmy, and noted that Jimmy’s expression was utterly melted in warmth- like butter under a hot knife. “You.” Thomas repeated, reaching up to touch Jimmy’s chin. He stroked his fingers along Jimmy’s jaw, skin dancing on skin to wipe away nasty scum and pond water. 

“Am I the most important name on that list?” Jimmy teased. 

“Yes.” Thomas mumbled; without hesitation he leaned in to kiss Jimmy firmly upon the mouth. For a minute it was all lips and teeth, noses colliding as Jimmy opened his mouth and allowed Thomas to plunder him raw. Ginger meant peppermint, combining to make something warm and minty that might have belonged on a Christmas dish; Thomas couldn’t resist as he pushed Jimmy up against the leg of the pier. Even beneath the water, Jimmy’s body was hot, warming his instantly as he wrapped his arms about Jimmy’s waist and lifted him a little out of the water so that Jimmy could easily wrap his own arms about Thomas’ neck and hold on tight. 

“Cor guess grief makes you dandy.” Jimmy mumbled as Thomas sucked against the pulse of his throat and bit the tender skin. 

“M’sick in the head.” Thomas had no excuse, the age old line taking on new meaning when he said it to Jimmy. 

Naturally Jimmy didn’t care, “We’re right soggy bastards.” 

Bowing his head so that he could press his forehead against Thomas’ own, Jimmy kissed his repeatedly upon the cheeks and the tip of his nose, warming the skin beneath his touch. 

“I left champagne heaven to freeze with you in the nasty lake, and I couldn’t be more chuffed about it.” Jimmy smiled. Thomas was amazed as Jimmy bowed his head even more, nuzzling Thomas’ temple to kiss him against his hair line so that he could whisper right into his ear. 

“I am so grateful that Branson became a toff.” 

“So am I.” Thomas replied, his voice growing tight as the knot returned to his throat for an entirely different reason, “Even with-“ he paused as Jimmy kissed him full on the mouth. He broke off, panting, “Even with Daisy. I am so grateful.” 

Jimmy kissed him again, momentarily cutting off his sentence, “I am so grateful that I can hold you, and be with you, even in this way.” 

Jimmy’s lips were scalding hot against his freezing skin, melting him bit by bit as he kissed him again and again. Thomas paused, allowing Jimmy to capture and nibble enticingly at his lower lip. For a moment silence reigned save for the soft sound of skin meeting skin as Jimmy writhed in his touch. Thomas felt one of Jimmy’s legs slowly begin to creep around, his ankle sliding up the back of Thomas’ calve muscle till he was locked around his thigh. 

“I’m awful because I want more,” Thomas admitted his worst fear, for Jimmy was new to this game and Thomas was a seasoned veteran. He feared Jimmy would be startled, would run away the moment Thomas showed him that their tiny box of a world was actually a wide open field full of exploits to be had. It was selfish of him to long to touch Jimmy’s naked skin, to yearn for the heat of his channel and the taste of sweat on his skin as Thomas pounded into him. “i want you… I want you Jimmy.” 

Jimmy just kissed him harder, practically charging him with an electrical current as he tucked his leg tighter around Thomas’ thigh. Thomas’ hands crept downward, partly eager to hold Jimmy better lest he slip into the icy water… partly yearning to grasp as the curve of his rear. When he finally found his pound of flesh, he squeezed for all his worth delighting in the way that smooth roundness vanished into a deep crevice. Jimmy’s water soaked trousers and pants kept Thomas from gaining better purchase, but it was more than enough. 

“I’m ruined without you.” Jimmy whispered, his lips swollen from their kisses. Thomas felt a stab of guilt ripple through him even as he grasped Jimmy’s arse for all his worth. 

“God what have I done?” Thomas groaned, looked up into the love-ridden gaze swimming in aubergine. “I’ve tainted you- you of al people-“ 

“No. You haven’t tainted anything.” Jimmy corrected him, shaking his head so that little droplets of water fell between them from the ringlets of his hair. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see it’s just the world. You’ve got to treasure happiness where you can, damnit.” 

Thomas nodded, agreeing at once. His mother had thought the same.  
He leaned in to kiss Jimmy again and again, savoring the peppermint on his tongue till their tastes were one in the same. Till their saliva mixed and their tongues slid upon one another- twins in the womb. 

“I treasure you, I treasure you, I treasure you.” Thomas repeated against open mouthed kisses. Without another word he buried his face into Jimmy’s sweet neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the newest installment. We are nearly at the end. We just have two barriers to remove for our boys to have a real shot at happiness. So without further ado... let's press on!  
> Once again, thank you in advance to my readers and reviewers. It means the world to me when you comment! <3


	23. Don't Drop the Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The force at which the pair of them sprang apart could have knocked a nail from the wall. Thomas’ heart leapt into his throat at the caustic voice in the doorway. It didn’t help that the owner happened to be Daisy, standing there with a murderous look upon her usually cheery face as she folded her arms across her chest. She was breathing heavily, clearly on the verge of shouting though she kept as much control of her temper as possible by instead tapping rapidly with her foot. Jimmy ran a finger through his golden hair, letting out a harsh breath. No doubt his pulse was pounding. Thomas was quite the same, wondering just how damn long Daisy had been standing there. When had she come in? Thomas hadn’t even heard the door open he’d been so wrapped up in Jimmy. Had she seen Thomas kiss Jimmy’s knuckles? She’d certainly seen Jimmy press Thomas’ hand to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter and an epilogue left now! Then onto the sequel... get excited! (or not totally fine either way)  
> Some warnings for this chapter, it will contain pretty explicit sexual themes.   
> You're welcome.

The whole way back from Stockport, Daisy barely said a word. 

Had it been anyone else in the world (besides Jimmy) Thomas would have been glad for the silence. Coming from Daisy though, it was an ominous warning and one he did not fail to notice. He wondered if she’d gone off him, and silently prayed that she had. Maybe she would be the one to call off the wedding and spare him the trouble, but Daisy kept an iron grip on his hand as they sat on the train and headed into Grantham Station. It almost unnerved Thomas more than her silence. It was like she was trying to chain him to her side. Somewhere on this train, Thomas knew that Jimmy was sitting amongst other passengers and trying to be inconspicuous. The pair of them were sporting slightly soiled clothes, dried out from their pond dip but still heinously discolored at the edges. 

When the train finally came to a shuttering halt, Thomas found himself wary to disembark. He realized far too late that he hadn’t collaborated on an excuse with Jimmy- how would they explain the queer coincidence of them both being on the train at the same time? 

They stepped onto the platform arm in arm, Daisy leading the way purposefully towards the exit gates where the station master waited to tear their tickets. Yet as she extended her hand with both their tickets clasped in her beige traveling glove, Jimmy stepped off of the train and made a beeline after them. 

Thomas was momentarily swept away by how beautiful Jimmy looked emerging among the pillars of train steam, blonde hair blown about as he shoved his ticket in the station master’s hand and offered Thomas a quirky smile. Daisy looked pale and withdrawn, somehow not asking questions despite how Jimmy’s appearance was unexplained. Thomas didn’t know whether to be worried or thankful as the three of them exited the train station, bound for the main road to Downton which was slowly becoming consumed in darkness as all light faded from the horizon. 

Daisy was silent, her head bowed as she kept a steely grip on Thomas’ arm. She was utterly lost in thought, not even bothering to look at Jimmy as they walked. 

“Have a good trip?” Thomas offered to Jimmy, unsure of what else to say in the awkward silence. Jimmy thumbed his nose cheekily. 

“Why yes I did, thank you Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy agreed. “I hope you had a pleasant trip too?” 

“Well.” Thomas mumbled, shrugging as he weighed the obstacles… his mother’s death and his father’s cruelty versus kissing Jimmy senseless in a freezing pond. Jimmy pursed his lips, silently berating himself though there was no need. 

But before Jimmy could apologize, Daisy spoke up. Her tone was unusually cold, “Aren’t you going to ask if I had a good trip, Jimmy?” 

Her footsteps were suddenly heavy, each touch to the earth springing up a tiny pit of dust. Thomas caught her eyes; they were blazing with rage. 

He momentarily slowed his pace but she kept dragging him along. It seemed she wouldn’t stand for them to be a minute longer in Jimmy’s company as he sneered, “I don’t rightly care.” 

“Jimmy.” Thomas warned. 

“Did you have a good trip, Miss Daisy?” Jimmy offered a rather rude flair of the hat and hand, far too chummy for the circumstances so that Daisy only scowled even heavier. 

“No. I didn’t.” She snapped, “And if you keep being mean to me I won’t let Thomas invite you to our wedding.” 

Thomas’ stomach catapulted at the mention of his damned wedding, but just as he felt his sanity careening off a cliff Jimmy was there to catch him with a net and a snappy retort. “Why, you hear that Thomas?” Jimmy scoffed, his tone light and tinkling, “I’m not getting invited to your stupid little church wedding!” 

_Probably because you’d shout ‘I object’_ , Thomas considered internally. Jimmy wasn’t finished though, sneering as he finished, “Well guess what Daisy, when I get married to Thomas in a London jazz hall, I won’t let him invite you! So put that in your pipe and smoke it!” 

Thomas touched his brow with his free hand, wondering who would be liable to kill the other first: Jimmy or Daisy. 

Daisy spluttered, unable to form an adequately snappy retort as Jimmy kept a jaunt in his step. Utterly trounced, Daisy’s cheeks began to burn a hot pink as she fell bitterly silent again. 

“So when are you getting married to him, I’m curious.” Daisy didn’t look at Thomas as she spoke, but he could hear the tears beginning to form. Could sense her emotions warbling. Jimmy, for his part, didn’t look the least bit sympathetic though Thomas felt like the worlds biggest asshole. Daisy’s grip slackened on his arm, and she slowed up even more. 

Thomas wished she would rage and shout, anything besides going quiet and still. 

“Daisy I…” Daisy pulled out of his arm, and Thomas went silent as she straightened the front of her traveling coat better. 

If he fell out with Daisy, he lost his way back into the house. Back to Danny and Tommy. If Thomas lost his way into Danny, Danny could be the one to suffer for it… particularly at Nathaniel Barrow’s hands. This struggle wasn’t about Daisy, despite her being a key integral part of it. It was about two children in the hands of an abuser. 

Knowing what he stood to lose, Thomas was slow to pop his temper with her. 

“Will you at least admit he’s treating me horribly?” Daisy demanded when Thomas did not make to soothe her. 

Thomas didn’t know what to say to that, side-eyeing Jimmy and finding him still with a jaunt in his step. To be sure, Jimmy could be a right little shit when he wanted to be. Alfred had found that out, more than most… but Jimmy was also the most important thing in Thomas’ life, and not an issue to be trifled with. His shortcomings were just as dear to Thomas as his golden moments. 

“Are you going to let him walk all over me when we’re married?” Daisy demanded, but when Thomas said nothing Daisy just grew more upset, “I can’t believe you, the bravest man I know and you won’t even stand up against your own best friend!” 

“Daisy, please-“ but Thomas didn’t even know what to say anymore. She cut across him- 

“Do you love him more than me, is that it?” Daisy demanded, and while her tone was clearly meant to be sarcastic she unknowingly hit the damning nail straight on the head. Wiping hurriedly at her blotchy face, she bit out, “Do you want to get married to him instead? Well, do you?” 

Jimmy said nothing, eyes skyward as Daisy continued to work herself into a tizzy, but Thomas noted just the tiniest hint of smug satisfaction upon his angelic face. He could be a demon, sure enough. 

“Bet you would marry him if you could.” Daisy spat out, now fully furious as she stomped along a good three paces ahead of the two men, “Bet you’d marry him a tick faster than you’d marry me. Bet you’d be the one wearing the dress too!” 

And with that, she was off. 

“Daisy!” Thomas called out after her. She didn’t slow up, becoming fainter and fainter in the dark until she was swallowed up entirely in the gloom. She’d get to Downton a good twenty minutes ahead of him at this rate. “Daisy come back!” 

She was gone. 

Thomas stopped walking entirely, utterly exhausted as he sighed and bent at the knees to groan at the ground. Jimmy idly picked at a spot on his vest, sneering as he waited for Thomas to start walking again. 

“Well.” Jimmy said snootily, “I’m not wearing the dress.” 

_No ___, Thomas thought as he and Jimmy began to walk once again, _Not unless it was made of green velvet, right? ___

__They walked the rest of the way to Downton in silence, and didn’t meet Daisy on the path. By the time they finally returned to the courtyard, it was close to ten and Thomas knew that the servant’s dinner would officially be over. With luck, they wouldn’t make much fuss slipping upstairs._ _

__There was a small row going on in the servant’s hall… something about someone cheating at a card game between Andy, John, and Moseley. Phyllis and Anna were staunchly defending their separate parties, leaving poor Andy to get run over repeatedly as Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson shared tea with Mrs. Patmore in the kitchens. As they passed by the door, Thomas heard Mrs. Patmore say, “Why Daisy! When on earth did you get back?”_ _

__Eager not to be caught out, Jimmy and Thomas ascended the stairs as fast as they could and slipped out of sight._ _

__They desperately needed a wash. Jimmy went first, desperate to wash his hair. Thomas followed swiftly after, just eager to get out of his dirty clothes._ _

__Afterwards, Thomas sought refuge in his room, turning on his beaded lamp and closing the curtains to his windows so that no light could escape out. After three days on the lam, being back in his room was a godsend. He felt like he’d crawled into some remote cave and hidden away from the rest of the world. Though he knew it illogical, he liked to imagine that this room was his own private home. He did not technically own it, but when the door was locked and the blinds were drawn… he could pretend._ _

__A sudden soft knocking on his door caused Thomas to pause mid wipe of his face, hair still damp and skin freshly steaming. He broke into a swift grin when Jimmy revealed himself behind the door, closing it shut to lock them both in the semi-gloom. He, too was freshly toweled, blonde hair turning a darkened gold in water to hang like ringlets around his angelic face._ _

__All of this would have gone according to plan if Jimmy hadn’t been scowling and holding the ruins of his day vest._ _

__“You’ve ruined me vest.” Jimmy declared, thrusting the offending garment to Thomas who caught it with a snort. He flipped it inside out, viewing the underside to see it heavily stained with pond scum while Jimmy made himself comfortable upon Thomas’ bed. He lounged like a cat, stretching and curling his toes as his back bowed and his mouth opened in an enormous yawn._ _

__“Comfy?” Thomas joked, to which Jimmy replied by grabbing Thomas’ only pillow and fluffing it with a free hand. He gave the vest another look, tutting at the dark green stains. “Cor, I think this might be unsalvageable.”_ _

__“Yer a right bastard.” Jimmy declared, a funny thing to say when he was cuddling up in Thomas’ bed like he owned it in nothing more than pajama bottoms and an undershirt. Thomas’ pillow was becoming damp from Jimmy’s freshly washed hair._ _

__Thomas smiled, enchanted. He laid Jimmy’s vest on his desk, next to his own vest which was equally distressed by pond scum._ _

__Divesting himself of his soiled trousers and hanging them over the back of his desk chair, Thomas unclipped his sock garters and pulled them off to reveal pale naked feet. Jimmy watched all the while, attempting to not appear consumed by the sight of Thomas’ well formed calves even as he flushed and buried his face into Thomas’ dampening pillow._ _

__“How are you gonna get out of this, Thomas?” Jimmy asked, voice muffled from the pillow._ _

__“I dunno.” Thomas admitted, opening his wardrobe to toss his dirty trousers inside along with his sock garters and socks._ _

__“Call it off-“ Jimmy whined._ _

__“I call it off I lose Margret and the kids.” Thomas reminded him, closing the wardrobe doors and hanging his damp face towel to dry over his toiletry rack. “You should have seen Danny’s face, Jimmy… dotted with bruises. Me da’s hitting Danny just like he hit me. If I blow it with Daisy, I lose my way to Danny, and what if he needs me, eh?” Thomas demanded._ _

__“Okay so we write to Margret-“ Jimmy offered._ _

__“Too dangerous.” Thomas shot down at once, turning off his beaded lamp so that the room was plunged into even more darkness. Now only his bedside lamp remained, giving Jimmy an odd shining halo. “Father’ll read the mail.”_ _

__“Isn’t that against the law?”_ _

__“Oh like he gives a damn.” Thomas picked up his desk chair to form a poor man’s lock beneath his door handle, wary that they could be interrupted by either Andy or Moseley… god forbid Carson. “He once beat up five men in succession to free my mother from a basement. He doesn’t give a damn about who he has to hurt.”_ _

__Jimmy watched him for a moment as Thomas pulled on a pair of faded blue pajama bottoms. Drawing the string tight, Thomas looked from his bureau up to find himself the full focus of Jimmy’s attention._ _

__“.. I’d take on ten men to free you from a basement.” Jimmy whispered._ _

__Thomas cocked an eyebrow, taking one step forward and then another till he loomed over Jimmy and partially blocked out the meagre light of his bedside lamp. Jimmy shrank down onto the pillow more, biting his lip nervously as Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over. The last time he’d been in such a position with Jimmy, he’d made the near fatal error of jumping to conclusions and kissing him in his sleep. Now, there were no conclusions to jump to… not when Jimmy was smiling up at him with such awe as if Thomas had hung the moon._ _

__“Are you trying to insist I’d ever get locked in a basement?” Thomas asked._ _

__“Well,” Jimmy leaned to the left, grabbing Thomas’ wrist near his head and nuzzling it affectionately. Thomas could feel Jimmy’s moist breath against his pulse, the elixir of life, “I’m not the one getting locked up.”_ _

___No ___, Thomas thought lovingly. He leaned in and pressed the chastest of kisses upon Jimmy’s perfectly molded lips. Sliding his hands up Thomas’ arms, Jimmy wrapped them up in a loving embrace that caused Thomas to momentarily slip in his hold on the bed. He flattened Jimmy against the mattress, knocking the breath out of the both of them, and they chuckled like children as Thomas rolled off and onto his side. There was barely room enough for the pair of them to lay side by side, not in a singular cot, but Thomas couldn’t fathom being anywhere else. Not now when they had so much to gain by being together._ _

___Jimmy reached up and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the pair of them into darkness. In the sudden, overwhelming gloom Thomas reached down behind his back to fish for the covers which he pulled hard. With Jimmy’s help, the pair of them tangled up in his meagre blanket, gathering more warmth from each other than the mattress. Side by side, pressed so tight that they could have been fused into the same body if they tried hard enough, the pair of them grew into a synched hold. Thomas wrapped his arm underneath the pillow and Jimmy’s head all in one, supporting the pair of them as let out a deep sigh. Jimmy nestled into Thomas’ embrace, arms tucked on top of Thomas’ other arm that kept them bound together. If Thomas was the lock, Jimmy was the key._ _ _

___Thomas was asleep and didn’t even know it._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___When Jimmy awoke, it was to Thomas shaving by the bureau._ _ _

___It was still dark out, barely past four thirty in the morning, and Thomas worked by the light of a shaded lamp near his depressed armchair. The soft scrape of a razor against skin was the only sound save when Thomas paused to swish his blade in a shallow bowl of water upon his desk. Jimmy found himself cocooned upon Thomas’ tiny cot, swaddled in blankets as if Thomas had wrapped him up like a babe. He’d fallen asleep with his head on Thomas’ chest, but now his head was on Thomas’ pillow, warm and secure as he blinked blearily through the gloom._ _ _

___Thomas was partially dressed, his black trousers pressed but his suspenders hanging slack around his waist. He wore an undershirt, taught and faded against his bulging pectoral muscles… Jimmy found himself momentarily fascinated by how his muscles rippled as Thomas moved his arm up to continue shaving. First his right cheek, then his left; his upper lip and lower lip… he moved underneath his chin, pulling the razor tight and finished at last. He washed his razor, toweled off his face, and slicked his hair back with fresh Brilliantine before wiping his hands and turning back around to spot Jimmy watching him from the bed._ _ _

___Jimmy flushed as Thomas paused, a small smile cracking his normally stoic features as Jimmy sat up in bed and ran fingers hastily through his golden curls. His heart hammered at the sight of Thomas’ smile, so soft and certain._ _ _

___“Hello.” Jimmy whispered. Thomas approached, cautious as he sat back down on the edge of the bed and reached up to run a hand through Jimmy’s hair._ _ _

___“Hello.” Thomas whispered back. Jimmy swallowed around a tongue too thick in his own mouth._ _ _

___They leaned in, and as they shared a kiss Jimmy felt himself lean in with a hand propped on Thomas’ thigh. The flesh beneath his fingers was pliant and warm, soothing as Jimmy tilted his jaw and opened his mouth wider to deepen their kiss into something more passionate. Thomas’ mouth tasted of mint and tooth powder, and Jimmy was sure his own taste was atrocious but Thomas didn’t seem to care as he stroked Jimmy’s chin with his thumb and pushed back a few of his curls._ _ _

___Jimmy’s hand slipped just a fraction of an inch, his displaced weight causing him to lean too heavily against the curve of Thomas’ leg. Without meaning to Jimmy’s fingers brushed over the apex of his thighs, and at the feeling of stiff flesh beneath his fingers, he paused._ _ _

___Their kiss was broken off by a hiss of a gasp emitting from Thomas’ clenched teeth. His eyes were shut, his brow furrowed as he bowed his head. Jimmy’s eyes betrayed him as he slid his gaze down to look at Thomas’ lap. A rather telling tent in his trousers left little to the imagination in way of his state. When Jimmy looked up again, Thomas was watching him; there was a band of color across his face._ _ _

___“I’m sorry-“ Thomas said, and made to pull away until Jimmy stopped him._ _ _

___“… Can’t have you standing’ at attention when you go downstairs.” Jimmy mumbled, saying nothing to Thomas’ apology (as if one was even warranted), “Dasiy’ll think it’s for her.”_ _ _

___“I think Daisy’s ready to bash me head in to be honest.” Thomas muttered. Jimmy couldn’t help but snort, his anxiety giving way to tiny soundless giggles as he grinned and ran his fingers up and down the tent in Thomas’ pants. He could feel the strength behind the muscle, the tightness in the fabric._ _ _

___“Mm.” Jimmy mumbled, his nerves getting the better of his voice. “I can think of much better things to do with your head.” And just to prove his point, he kissed Thomas again._ _ _

___It was early in their relationship, and a wildly provocative thing to do given their close proximity to other employees only a thin wall away, but Jimmy felt as if he were waging a war against Daisy. As if he were having to make up for lost time and horrific experiences they’d both endured just to get to this heart stopping moment._ _ _

___Jimmy could not find it in him to pretend that he hadn’t fantasized about this exact second. About the moment when he would finally be able to touch what had first scared him and then consumed him. His imagination had run rampant on gin and jazz, wondering if Thomas was a masculine and dominating as he’d feared (and hoped). Now, the answer was laid bare before him as Jimmy brought a trembling hand up to the waistband of Thomas’ trousers and began to unbutton each closing clasp. With every flick of his fingers, the tips of his nails scraped across the stiffened flesh just beneath, and Thomas grunted a little at the sensation as Jimmy finally reached his hand inside to gently cup at his hardened sex. His pants were taut, the fabric tented becoming moist from Thomas’ need as Jimmy soothingly ran his hand up and down Thomas’ length._ _ _

___Jimmy steeled himself, desperately trying to calm his racing heart as he finally summoned the courage to reach his hand into Thomas’ pants._ _ _

___“Mm, I’m-“ Jimmy mumbled into Thomas’ mouth as Thomas gasped, _“Ah-!”_ _ _ _

___“I’ve done this to myself.” Jimmy whispered as he reveled in the heavy weight against his hand. Thomas’ cock was incredibly hot and moist; Jimmy’s hand trembled as he closed his fingers around Thomas’ length and gently drug his hand up. Soon the palm of his hand was full with the head of Thomas’ cock, and Thomas gasped against his mouth again as Jimmy drug his hand down again to let his foreskin retract. “But.. never… another. If I- If I’m bad I’m sorry.”_ _ _

___“Christ, Jimmy.” Thomas whispered, his voice sounding as if he were in actual pain as he moaned, “Your talents are bloody endless.”_ _ _

___Jimmy bit his lip, heart pounding wildly in his chest as he stroked Thomas once, twice, three times. Each time his hand came down, it held more moisture, still Thomas’ cock was slick in his fist and his thumb could glide with ease up around the sensitive head. Thomas’ eyes were closed at this point, his head hung back as he panted softly for release and mercy._ _ _

___He’d get neither if Jimmy had a say._ _ _

___“.. Had a girl in France once put her mouth on me.” Jimmy admitted, having utterly no idea why that particular memory was cropping up now. He could barely remember it what with how drunk he’d been on his day of leave, completely lost and confused, eighteen years old and having received word of his father’s death by post. His bunkmates solution had been simple: get drunk and get laid. They’d found him a prostitute sure enough, but at the very last second Jimmy had changed his request from getting laid to getting sucked off. She’d complied, with this weird sullen expression that Jimmy could not help but share. Jimmy hadn’t thought about that moment in years, and now of all times seemed for an odd moment for it to appear. But it hardly mattered. All he knew was that, for some reason, he needed to keep talking. Like if he didn’t he’d lose his nerve or suddenly realize that he was bringing his darkest fantasies to life and utterly shattering his perception of heterosexuality. “Hated it. Could barely understand why we were doin’ it at all what with hell lickin’ at our arses and elbows. But I could be on an execution block and I’d see a reason to pleasure you.”_ _ _

___He felt Thomas’ cock throb in is his grip, blood pulsing hard through swollen veins as Thomas gasped against his neck, making the skin moist._ _ _

___“Y-yeah?” Thomas stuttered out. His head lolled back on his shoulders again as he stuttered in and out, eyelids fluttering wildly as Jimmy sped up his pace._ _ _

___“Cause…” Nothing but the truth now, “Cause I love you. And I wanna… I wanna make you feel good.” Jimmy bit his lip till the flesh pinched and throbbed beneath his teeth. He squeezed as he pumped, grip flexing as more moisture condensed upon the head of Thomas’ arousal. Thomas groaned, a noise he immediately clenched down on with clamped teeth to keep from making too much noise._ _ _

___“Oh sunshine-“ the nickname made Jimmy’s heart beat wildly in his chest, “You always make me feel good.”_ _ _

___Jimmy suddenly thought of that prostitute again, and how sullen she’d looked when she’d taken Jimmy into her mouth. The heat had been intense, the pleasure blinding, but the moment had been dampened by her less-than-chipper mood. Jimmy had to wonder what it might be like if he put his mouth on Thomas. If Thomas might have that same blinding pleasure or if Jimmy would ruin it from lack of experience. From sneaking a hand up Ivy’s skirts to putting his mouth on Thomas’ cock, he’d certainly made a long jump in regards to masculinity… but suddenly Jimmy couldn’t find it in him to care. With as much force that he knew he ought to breath and blink, he knew that he ought to take Thomas into his mouth._ _ _

___And so, he slipped to the floor._ _ _

___“Jimmy you don’t have to do anything-“_ _ _

___Thomas watched him go, stunned as Jimmy’s hand retracted from his pants momentarily only to fumble beneath the cloth and pull Thomas fully free. Jutting up from his black trousers, his cock was a handsome creature, proud and thick as Jimmy positioned himself between Thomas’ legs and perched on his knees. Jimmy was momentarily silent, stunned by Thomas’ cock (as stupid as it seemed). He didn’t know why he was so taken aback; for gods sake he had a cock too… but somehow knowing that this was Thomas’ cock made it all the more important. All the more perfect._ _ _

___“God you’re so big-“ Jimmy blurted out, and instantly blushed at just how stupid he sounded. Thomas’ band of color had exploded into a ruddy complexion, his high cheeks and perfect mouth flushed at Jimmy’s praise. Jimmy kept stroking Thomas’ cock, unsure of how to best bridge the gap and lower his mouth. Did he have to say something? A verbal cue of ‘here I go’ to help Thomas prepare? How did one go about sucking another bloke off? Jimmy had had better confidence playing the saxophone high on absinthe._ _ _

___“Jimmy-“ Thomas whispered his name like a prayer, “You don’t have to stroke me ego.”_ _ _

___“M’not strokin’ your _ego._ ” Jimmy corrected him with a rather prominent squeeze around Thomas’ cock. Thomas watched, eyes blown and nearly black as Jimmy leaned forward one inch then two, mouth opening slightly as his breath hitched in his throat. _ _ _

___“Love…” Thomas’ voice was so soft, so gentle, “Darling… you don’t have to-“_ _ _

___But Jimmy was already committed, like the pig at the barbecue, and as he looked up to catch Thomas’ eye he finally bridged the gap between them and took Thomas into his mouth._ _ _

___Thomas immediately jammed a fist into his mouth, desperate to keep down sound._ _ _

___Jimmy found it hard to describe the taste of Thomas, something oddly musky and salty that shouldn’t have been appealing but undeniably was. It was so ingrained with Thomas that Jimmy felt as if he was sucking Thomas’ soul in. As if they would be bound forever now, and none could tear them asunder. Jimmy kept his mouth slack, his jaw going slightly sore as he flattened his tongue beneath Thomas’ cock and used it like a cradle. Up and down he went, completely unsure about technique or what on earth he was doing besides the fact that he was trying to take as much of Thomas into his mouth as he possibly could. As weird as it felt, invasive and sinful, it sent a shiver through Jimmy’s whole body as he reached up with both hands to touch the base of Thomas’ cock. What he could not suck, he stroked, combining both techniques to render Thomas speechless._ _ _

___Thomas grabbed Jimmy’s hair with his free hand, eyes rolling back in his hand as he practically swallowed his fist to keep quiet. Jimmy could sense tension coiling in Thomas’ thighs- could feel more and more moisture seep from Thomas’ cock. He knew what was coming, and part of him wanted to pull back. But then he considered how intimate it would make them, how Jimmy might be able to savor this odd musky taste in his mouth all day if he tried. Jimmy felt Thomas’ grip tighten in his hair, heard the tiniest whimper of ‘Jimmy, wait-‘ slip past his fist- and then his mouth was full of a bitter salty taste that made him gag._ _ _

___Jimmy coughed, spluttering, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from dripping onto the floor as Thomas’ essence coated his lips and chin. Embarrassment burned at his cheeks as his eyes watered from the exertion. He attempted to swallow a second time and found it hard pressed to do so- almost impossible. It made him want to gag again, and he had to force it past his reflex. For a moment, Jimmy couldn’t summon the will to look up at Thomas; somehow the knowledge of what he’d just done burned at him. He’d put another man’s cock in his mouth, he’d guzzled it with the same delight that children took to a penny lick. When Thomas had reached his climax, Jimmy had wanted to swallow all of him- and why?_ _ _

___A hand was creeping under his chin, forcing his gaze up. Jimmy almost wanted to close his eyes as he finally (begrudgingly) met Thomas’ stare._ _ _

___He was spell bound._ _ _

___“Oomph-!” Jimmy cried out as Thomas suddenly grabbed him beneath the armpits to hoist him up onto the bed. Jimmy went willingly and found himself splayed on his back as Thomas kissed him so soundly on the mouth that he momentarily could not find it within him to breath. Thomas’ hands were hot and reaching, feeling from his pectorals down his side to squeeze at his rump. Jimmy flushed, partly loving it but but partly fearing what would come next as Thomas slid a leg in between Jimmy’s own and began to lovingly grind down on his hips. Jimmy felt all the blood rush to his cock as Thomas reached a hand round the front of his pants and peppered his collarbone with kisses._ _ _

___“Thomas, I-“ Jimmy stuttered, once again reduced to verbal blockades, “I dunno if I’m r-ready f-for-“_ _ _

___But Thomas cut him off with the sweetest, “Shh.” a soothing and loving thing as he kissed Jimmy again and silenced his fears. Jimmy’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as Thomas’ fingers danced and slid across the fine hairs of his belly. One dip, two, then suddenly Thomas’ fingers were plundering below and- _oh dear god!_ _ _ _

___Clearly Jimmy had been doing something wrong all these years because never in his life had he ever felt a touch so good as this. Thomas’ fingers clenched and dragged, squeezing him in just the right way even as his other hand forced Jimmy’s pants down around his ankles and his mouth smothered Jimmy with hot peppering kisses._ _ _

___But Thomas’ mouth was lowering, kissing a fiery trail down his abdomen as he lifted up Jimmy’s undershirt with his free hand. Jimmy realized what Thomas was going to do a split-second before he did it. There wasn’t enough time to cram a fist into his mouth as Thomas swallowed him whole. Jimmy let out a spluttering cry, horribly embarrassed at how close it came to being a whimper while Thomas had the audacity to smirk with his mouth full of Jimmy’s cock and reach a hand up to silence Jimmy with the tip of his fingers. It was hardly enough to keep Jimmy’s hitched breathes back as Thomas’ hot mouth proceeded to suck his very soul out. That broad in France didn’t have tuppence on Thomas Barrow. All the women in the world didn’t have a prayer._ _ _

___But there was more coming._ _ _

___“Shh love, don’t make a sound.” Thomas pulled up from sucking Jimmy’s cock with care, grinning devilishly as Jimmy continued to whimper and writhe._ _ _

___“Bastard.” Jimmy blurted out mid-pant, “Quit torturin’ me.”_ _ _

___But this just made Thomas grin even wider. He looked almost maniacal, and given his close proximity to Jimmy’s aroused cock that could not be a good thing. “Oh Jimmy… You think this is torture? Let me show you torture.”_ _ _

___Jimmy was about to urge him that _no_ , he really didn’t need to show him torture, but suddenly Thomas’ fingers were slipping past his swollen lips to grace his mouth. Jimmy found himself sucking on Thomas’ fingers (slightly salty and bitter), as they rubbed gently upon the bed of his tongue. When they slipped back from Jimmy’s mouth, he was quite unsure what the hell was going to come next. His heart skipped a beat as Thomas situated himself a little better between Jimmy’s legs. One hand pumped Jimmy’s cock with expert precision, till Jimmy was harder than he’d ever been in his life and unable to take much more. _ _ _

___Then Thomas’ fingers were probing in the cleft of his arse, slick from Jimmy’s spit and searching. When they found their mark, Jimmy hitched a terrified breath. When one finger finally sank home, Jimmy let out a high pitched noise of distress that Thomas had to smother with a kiss lest they be discovered._ _ _

___“S’too much-“ Jimmy panted into Thomas mouth, “S’too much- I can’t-“_ _ _

___“Oh you can.” Thomas corrected him, and Jimmy groaned as Thomas slickened finger sank right up to the knuckle, searching for something though fuck knows what. “You can and you will. I guarantee it, my darling.”_ _ _

___Here was something new: Jimmy getting called someone’s darling with a finger up his bum. First time for everything._ _ _

___Deep within him, Thomas’ finger curled and twisted, searching-_ _ _

____“Gya-!”_ Jimmy bit out. Thomas smothered him again with another silencing kiss. His finger had touched on _something_ , and that _something_ was proceeding to make him see stars. It must have been what he was searching for. Combine that with Thomas’ hand stroking him feverishly and Jimmy was ready to throw himself from the nearest window he saw to get away from the high voltage pleasure crashing through his system. Compared to this, Anstruther was like bedding a corpse. Compared to this, _anyone_ was like a corpse. Thomas Barrow had officially cemented himself as the king of paradise in Jimmy’s mind, with each twist of his wrist and curl of his finger. His hands were meant for artists to sculpt. For jazz songs to worship. His hands were the things of legend. His hands were the works of an omnipresent god. His hands ripped at the fabric of Jimmy’s sanity and tore his lies in two. His hands cradled Jimmy’s frantically beating heart- and- and- _ _ _

___“Oh please.” Jimmy couldn’t keep it back, “Please- please, please, please-!”_ _ _

___But Thomas leaned in, his voice hot, sultry and right in Jimmy’s ear as he whispered, “Are you ready to give up yet?”_ _ _

___Jimmy bit hard onto Thomas’ neck, like a vampire from some gothic novel in a desperate attempt to silence his screams. He came harder than he’d ever before in his life, temporarily seeing white as the entire world faded away to pitch black and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He fell back onto Thomas’ pillow, shaking wildly as if from a vicious cold while Thomas descended upon his cock and licked up every drop of Jimmy’s essence like it was a scrumptious desert. If Jimmy had had just a bit more of sanity in him, he would have noted that Thomas was clearly mental because Jimmy had just tasted semen and it certainly wasn’t pleasant. As it was, Jimmy couldn’t even summon his own name._ _ _

___What was his name again? Jimbo? Jim? Jammers? Something like that.  
It hardly mattered. _ _ _

___“Fu….ck…” Jimmy felt the curse slipped past his lips as Thomas kissed back up his abdomen and helped him to pull up his pants._ _ _

___For a minute, Jimmy couldn’t find the appropriate words. He blinked back the blackness, Thomas’ room swimming back into focus as Thomas laid over him and smiled down sweetly. One hand was in Jimmy’s hair, fingers twirling through his hair- his other hand stroked at Jimmy’s chin and neck, chasing the sweat and fever there. The smell of musk and sex between them was palpable, oddly soothing though Jimmy couldn’t say why. In any other situation the smell might have been repulsing._ _ _

___Jimmy momentarily closed his eyes, almost going back to sleep as Thomas kissed his brow, his cheeks… the tip of his nose. Jimmy sniffed, smelling himself upon Thomas’ lips. Once again, it might have been repulsing had it not been so … lovely. Very very lovely._ _ _

___He blinked his eyes open again, and without hesitation kissed Thomas full on the mouth. He brought his arms up, encircling Thomas in them, and in that moment Thomas laid fully atop him, protecting him like an iron shield. Jimmy wanted to stay there beneath him forever, like he was wrapped in emerald velvet once more._ _ _

___An ominous tick next to them signaled the clock striking the hour of five._ _ _

___“Do I still have to work?” Jimmy asked, praying for leniency as Thomas continued to kiss his brow, “Or… can I uh… stay in bed?”_ _ _

___Thomas shook his head; Jimmy scowled. “Fraid not, love.”_ _ _

___And with that, he sat back up. Tucking himself back into his pants and buttoning up his trousers, Thomas rose from the bed to grab his shirt sleeves from over his clothes horse. Jimmy sighed, thoroughly disappointed as Thomas’ arm muscles were hidden from view beneath a sheet of starched white._ _ _

___“…What was that you did?” Jimmy was unable to keep from asking. Thomas looked over his shoulder with a sweet smile._ _ _

___“Mm?”_ _ _

___“With your uh…” Jimmy was about to elaborate, but Thomas’ sweet smile had turned sinister again as he raised a hand up and crooked a finger like he was beckoning Jimmy over. Jimmy flushed, utterly embarrassed. “Sodding bastard.”_ _ _

___Thomas laughed gayly, coming back to the bed and sitting down on the edge to rub Jimmy’s back as Jimmy rolled onto his side and buried his face in Thomas’ pillow._ _ _

___“Just wait, Jimmy.” Thomas leaned in to whisper enticingly into his ear, “Tip of the iceberg.”_ _ _

___“Hmph!” Jimmy snorted. Thomas leaned back up, and suddenly a sharp sting across the swell of his buttocks cursed Jimmy’s skin. He gasped, sitting bolt upright to glare at Thomas who was grinning at him coquettishly._ _ _

___“Did you just smack me arse?” Jimmy demanded._ _ _

___“I did!” No need to waterboard Thomas. He was more than happy to come clean to that particular crime._ _ _

___Jimmy reached up and lightly slapped Thomas across the cheek. Thomas’ grin just turned maniacal. He leapt forward, grabbing Jimmy hard around the waist and taking him back to the bed so that the mattress squeaked forcibly beneath them and they nearly toppled to the floor. Jimmy wrapped his arms about Thomas’ neck, grinning into the skin of his shoulder as Thomas pulled him insufferably close and smothered Jimmy in his love. Their legs interlocked, their weights mingled to become one forcible barrier as Jimmy sighed peacefully into Thomas skin and contented himself against the warmth of Thomas’ shirtsleeves._ _ _

___Thomas kissed him over and over again, his sweetness peppering Jimmy’s tousled golden locks._ _ _

___“Let’s stay here today. All day.” Jimmy begged into Thomas’ neck. He never once lifted his head, “Never move from it, yeah? Just… stay here.”_ _ _

___“No love.” Thomas warned, “You can’t run away from the world.” But he kissed Jimmy sweetly none the less._ _ _

___“What can you do with it, then?” Jimmy asked._ _ _

___“… Dunno.” Ever the one for answers, “Watch it burn.”_ _ _

___Jimmy reached into Thomas’ trouser pocket, fingers fishing for what he knew he’d find… a silver lighter dented at the bottom from a bullet. He pulled it free, flicking it open between them. Thomas looked down from where Jimmy held his lighter, and back up to Jimmy’s devilish grin._ _ _

___He snorted, laughed, and kissed Jimmy tenderly upon the mouth._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Daisy was in a murderous mood, and Jimmy couldn’t be happier about it. Thomas, in the meantime, was just trying to avoid being in public as his face flashed with heat and caused him to break into an ear splitting grin at the worst times possible. Talk about a way to wake up._ _ _

___He kept looking down at his fingers as he did the inventory, rubbing his fingertips together and remembering fondly the impossible heat of Jimmy’s channel. That secret little nub at the end which he’d stroked with such tenderness… the way Jimmy had clenched in his grip, twisting and turning on the damp sheets of his single cot. And then his mouth- his mouth- clumsy and inexperienced but utterly prefect as he cradled Thomas’ cock against his tongue. The way he’d coughed and spluttered as Thomas had come on his face- how was Jimmy to know that that image was going to fuel Thomas’ fantasies for months? Years, even._ _ _

____I’m courting an angel_ , Thomas thought fondly as he tapped his dark green pen idly against his clipboard and set his inventory list aside. Surrounded by shelves of linens, tasked with pulling it all together for a late summer cleaning. Thank god it was menial work with little to no interference, because Thomas couldn’t have told a stranger his last name if he was pressed at that moment. _ _ _

___A knock at the door. Thomas looked up, slightly worried as to who should come calling on him when Jimmy was elbow deep in the washroom trying to clean his ruined jacket and Daisy was furious with him in the kitchen._ _ _

___The door opened to reveal Jimmy and Thomas broke into a loving grin; Jimmy was scowling, though hardly out of bitterness as he cradled his ruined jacket in one hand to shut the door with another._ _ _

___“Alright, look at this.” Jimmy stomped over to Thomas, showing his blue jacket now riddled with dark brown stains that were clearly deep set, “I’ve tried a combination of Papoid and Soda Tablets… and now I’ve gone and just made some kind of insane-“ But Jimmy broke off, gesturing helplessly as Thomas capped his green pen to pocket it and take the jacket from Jimmy. He held it up to the light, noting that the stains had now begun to set; Papoid and Soda Tablets wouldn’t help. It was time to pull out the big guns. “God help me. What have I done?” Jimmy moaned, “This was my favorite jacket, Thomas!”_ _ _

___Thomas snorted, but Jimmy was far from soothed, “You’ve ruined my favorite jacket, I could kill you!”_ _ _

___Thomas cocked an eyebrow, reaching out to gently pluck at a stray curl of blond hair that was framing Jimmy’s angelic face. It sprang back into place at the command of his touch._ _ _

___“Papoid and Soda Tablets are too soft, love.” Thomas explained, “It’s not going to get these sorts of stains out. You need lye-“_ _ _

___“Alright.” Jimmy shrugged, taking his jacket back from Thomas to make a bee line for the door. Thomas grabbed him by the elbow, jerking him back before he could get too far out of the room. Jimmy looked round incredulously._ _ _

___“Woah, love!” Thomas admonished, knowing full well the dangers of lye if handled improperly, “Have you ever used lye before in your life?”_ _ _

___“No, who cares-“ Jimmy shrugged._ _ _

___“I care-“ Thomas pulled Jimmy back a little bit more to his chest. Jimmy flushed, looking up at Thomas amazed._ _ _

___How slow they were to learn that each cared for the other. That suddenly contra mundi had become contra mundum._ _ _

___“It’s hot stuff, it’ll hurt your skin if you’re not careful.” Thomas advised, and just to prove his point, he slid his grip down Jimmy’s arm to take a hand in his own. He caressed each knuckle, bringing Jimmy’s hand to his lips so that he could kiss his fingers with care._ _ _

___These fingers had wrapped around his cock, his hair, his arms- these fingers had held him close and guided his face down for their face kiss. These fingers were as dear to him as all the jewels in the crown._ _ _

___“Let me wash your jacket.” Thomas offered, “I’ve used lye before, and I have to wash me own jacket.”_ _ _

___“Mm,” Jimmy was momentarily rendered speechless as Thomas kissed his fingers again and again, “But… but what if your skin gets damaged?”_ _ _

___Thomas laughed, dropping Jimmy’s hand to hold up his own, encased by his leather glove. Jimmy now knew the scar that lay beneath it, and the scowl that suddenly graced his beautiful face was a clear indication to what he thought of Thomas down talking himself. Suddenly it was Jimmy’s turn to take Thomas’ hand in his own, and though he did not make to kiss his hand he pressed it right against his chest so that Thomas’ warped fingers were now cocooned against Jimmy’s heart and Jimmy’s hand._ _ _

___“Not much danger in my skin getting damaged-“_ _ _

___“Perish the thought.” Jimmy said with a soft smile._ _ _

___“What thought?”_ _ _

___The force at which the pair of them sprang apart could have knocked a nail from the wall. Thomas’ heart leapt into his throat at the caustic voice in the doorway. It didn’t help that the owner happened to be Daisy, standing there with a murderous look upon her usually cheery face as she folded her arms across her chest. She was breathing heavily, clearly on the verge of shouting though she kept as much control of her temper as possible by instead tapping rapidly with her foot. Jimmy ran a finger through his golden hair, letting out a harsh breath. No doubt his pulse was pounding. Thomas was quite the same, wondering just how damn long Daisy had been standing there. When had she come in? Thomas hadn’t even heard the door open he’d been so wrapped up in Jimmy. Had she seen Thomas kiss Jimmy’s knuckles? She’d certainly seen Jimmy press Thomas’ hand to his chest._ _ _

___“Don’t you have anything better to do than listen at doors?” Jimmy demanded brusquely as Thomas refolded Jimmy’s jacket over his arm. Daisy flushed a dark red._ _ _

___“Apparently not when you’re getting all handsy with my fiancé. You do realize that, right?” she added nastily, as if Jimmy were slow, “That he is my fiancé?”_ _ _

___Jimmy clenched his jaw; Thomas knew the expression all to well, more than aware Jimmy was about to pop a screw if he didn’t let pressure off soon. Eager to diffuse the situation, Thomas strove to distract Jimmy’s hyper focused attention_ _ _

___“I’m going to wash this-“ Thomas said. Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck, perhaps trying to cool the heat he found there._ _ _

___“Let me go with you, I need to learn how to use lye.” Jimmy said._ _ _

___“Fair enough,” Thomas agreed, for any valet worth his salt had to know in the event of a nasty stain, “I’d rather you learn from me than someone else-“_ _ _

___“Are you even aware that I’m in this room?” Daisy demanded angrily. Jimmy sucked in a breath, ready to let loose, but Thomas was under such strain that he beat Jimmy to the punch._ _ _

___ _

___“Daisy, what do you want me to say to you?” Thomas demanded. He was truly at a loss, and his temper was beginning to fray. Daisy flushed again, her eyes beginning to sparkle as Thomas’ voice rose, “You think this is easy for me? You think any of this is easy for me-?”_ _ _

___“Thomas.” Jimmy cut him off. Thomas snapped his mouth shut, taking several shaky breathes as Daisy clutched at the doorway behind her and sniffed emotionally._ _ _

___He’d never wanted to yell at her, to upset her. Even Jimmy, so wrapped up in this situation that he could barley breath, knew that._ _ _

___“Look we’ve had… a rough weekend.” Thomas murmured, swallowing bitterly around the sudden lump in his throat as he considered that only one week ago Thomas had been at his mother’s bedside… his face in her loving hands, “A very rough weekend.”_ _ _

___Daisy was far from soothed, her expression growing bitter as she turned her head to the side and regarded Thomas coldly. As if they were back to being enemies again, all their kisses lost between them, “Really, I think you had a nice weekend what with Jimmy sneaking up to Stockport.”_ _ _

___Thomas was momentarily rendered speechless, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as he realized that Daisy had somehow seen Jimmy in Stockport during his mother’s funeral. What had she seen, and where? Had she stumbled upon Jimmy in the market square and put two and two together?_ _ _

___Thomas swallowed around the lump in his throat, desperately trying to keep his face blank lest he give himself away. He couldn’t jump to conclusions, “You think my mother dying made for a nice weekend?”_ _ _

___“I think Jimmy kissing you in the woods made for a nice weekend.” Daisy sneered._ _ _

___Ah.  
So she’d seen. _ _ _

___Thomas bowed his head, for the first time at a complete loss as to what to say. He looked to Jimmy, wondering if he was just as speechless as Thomas, and found that Jimmy was picking at a spot on his jacket not even bothering to look at Daisy. He slyly glanced at Thomas out of the corner of his eye, bitterly sneering. Once again, Jimmy’s devil horns were beginning to show, and it stabbed at Thomas’ heart to know it was jealousy that he was seeing._ _ _

___“D’you even love me, Thomas?” Daisy demanded, her voice growing unstable with emotion. He could practically hear the tears beginning to form as he continued to watch Jimmy’s sneer deepen. How on earth was he going to get out of this situation, and still salvage his way to Margret and the boys? “Or did you just say that to… to… make some kind of statement?”_ _ _

___Thomas did not answer her. She pressed on, “Are you even taking your pills anymore?”_ _ _

___In a flash, Jimmy’s sneer was gone to be replaced by a look of abject horror as he gaped from Daisy to Thomas, “What?” He demanded to Thomas, “Are you?”_ _ _

___“No-“ Thomas assured him at once, eager to placate his fears. Jimmy let out a breath, soothed. Daisy just got madder, stamping her foot hard on the ground in her frustrations._ _ _

___“Thomas!” She berated, “You know you’re sick-!”_ _ _

___Jimmy popped._ _ _

___“You say one more sodding word-!” Jimmy threatened, casting his jacket aside in as if making to go to fisticuffs with Daisy. She gasped, a hand flying to her throat as Jimmy’s jacket fluttered to the ground. “You know nothing about it, you hear me? Nothing! You want to hear a thing or two about sickness, I’ll fill you in! I’ll bloody well fill you right in-!”_ _ _

___But in his anger, Jimmy had forgotten that Daisy was not the enemy. Despite both of them vying for Thomas’ affection, Daisy was the one who was conned. The poor girl had become trapped in their desperate attempt to escape the pressures of society. She could no more be blamed than Jimmy for her part to play. Thomas would not see her come to harm, even if it brought Jimmy vicious satisfaction._ _ _

___Thomas might have been utterly in love with Jimmy, but he would not be indulging Jimmy’s notorious temper._ _ _

___“Jimmy-!” Thomas lunged forward, grabbing Jimmy around the waist to drag him back. Jimmy thrashed for a moment, still incensed, but Thomas held on tight. “Hush your temper. Hush.”_ _ _

___Jimmy trembled in his grip, but did not seek to lash out again. In the doorway, Daisy looked disturbed, staring at Jimmy as if she now thought him insane. For some reason, that look angered him more than Daisy’s insinuation that his mother dying had made for a ‘nice weekend’._ _ _

___Unfortunately for the three of them, their quarrel had caught the attention of others._ _ _

___Thomas had no time to form a defense or excuse as Mrs. Hughes appeared in the doorway of the linen cupboard, taken aback by Daisy’s disturbed expression and Jimmy trembling vengefully in Thomas’ ashen hold. She gaped, gesturing from Daisy to Jimmy in her desperate search for an answer._ _ _

___“All this shouting, what’s going on in here?” Mrs. Hughes demanded. No one answered her. “James?” She looked to him most of all, unnerved by the jumping muscle in his jaw, “Are you alright?”_ _ _

___Thomas slowly let go of Jimmy’s waist; Jimmy bitterly snatched his jacket up from the floor to hurriedly fold it over his arm. He took one sucking breath after another, far from soothed. Thomas squeezed his shoulder, but it did very little good._ _ _

___“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Hughes, “Thomas lied, “Just a disagreement.”_ _ _

___But Daisy wouldn’t go along with the lie, “You’re the reason for all of this!” she spat, venomously, pointing an accusatory finger at Jimmy so that once again he bristled ready to pounce, “You’re the reason he’s sick!”_ _ _

___Jimmy seized, taking a violent step forward. Thomas hastily grabbed him by the arm again, yanking him back. Mrs. Hughes went white, fists balled at her side as she observed the proceedings like one might a frightening picture show. It didn’t take long however for her to find her voice, instantly reprimanding all of them before the situation could spiral out of hand a third time._ _ _

___“Daisy, for heavens sake, stop staring fights in broad daylight.” Mrs. Hughes snapped, “These kinds of conversations are meant for private venues, you can’t just make a scene in the servant’s hall- and as for you!” Mrs. Hughes added, pointing a warning finger at Jimmy, “You’re already walking on thin ice in this house, Mr. Kent. I advise you to cool your boots!”_ _ _

___“And you, well-“ Mrs. Hughes harrumphed. Thomas paled, already steeling himself for her words, “I highly doubt I need to voice my displeasure to you.”_ _ _

___Thomas felt like a right fool as he bowed his head. Naturally, when Mrs. Hughes had been begging from square one for Thomas to cut his affair with Daisy off, she had every right to complain. Now they all had to deal with Thomas’ mess. How would he ever make it up to them, how would he ever explain himself? Thomas suddenly thought of all the relationships he’d managed to garner in the house since his failed attempt at conversion therapy. All the ties he stood to lose._ _ _

___He didn’t know whether he should be disturbed or not to find that he simply didn’t care.  
It was like he was numb to all emotions save for his love for Jimmy. _ _ _

___“He’s-!” Daisy pointed a shaky finger at Jimmy, her accusations lost to blubbering as she suddenly began to cry. Desperate, Daisy wiped her face several times with the back of her blistered hand to keep pointing her other hand at Jimmy in an unwavering blow, “They’re-! He’s making Thomas sick!”_ _ _

___The word ‘sick’ rang out in the air, harsh and accusing. Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips into a thin white line._ _ _

___She reached out, and placed a gentle hand on Daisy’s shoulder, soothing her even as her tears took over._ _ _

___“Daisy… why don’t you come with me for a spot of tea.” Mrs. Hughes murmured softly. “Just a spot, you’ve been working very hard.”_ _ _

___She patted Daisy sweetly on the back, turning her a little in the doorway so that the pair of them could stumble into the hallway by Mrs. Hughe’s commanding grip. Thomas suddenly felt incredibly guilty knowing the conversation they were about to have._ _ _

___He’d never wanted to hurt Daisy, but now he couldn’t avoid it.  
For the first time in his life, there was blood on his hands and he didn’t want it to be there. _ _ _

___Mrs. Hughes gave him a disappointed look, so queer when she’d been the one begging for him to cut it off. Thomas suddenly realized with a pang that despite not wanting him to carry on with Daisy that didn’t mean Mrs. Hughes wanted him to carry on with Jimmy instead. His perversions were still perversions in her eyes. She was just kinder about them. It made him want to be sick._ _ _

___“Thomas, why don’t you….” Mrs. Hughes fished for the appropriate response, “Take a walk.”_ _ _

___“The inventory-“ Thomas reminded her, bleak. She shook her head, her lips still pursed._ _ _

___“I will handle Mr. Carson.” She assured him. He nodded, rather embarrassed as she continued down the hall with Daisy till the pair of them were out of sight of the door._ _ _

___Thomas could hear Daisy crying up the hall._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Elsie had known this was coming from the minute James Kent walked back into the house, but that hadn’t made it any easier to accept when it finally occurred._ _ _

___She knew it was awful of her to think it, knew it was awful of her to want Thomas to marry Daisy when he was of that persuasion, but the fact of the matter was that life was easier for Thomas with a woman at his side. Companionship and children, legal love, these were very tempting words when faced with the prospect of jail and a lifetime hiding. At first, Elsie had admittedly been against the idea of Thomas courting Daisy. She’d smelt disaster up the garden path on it like a bloodhound to a fox trail, but then disaster had never come. Month after month had passed, and though Thomas had certainly been more subdued (not that that was a bad thing), he hadn’t keeled over… at least, he hadn’t keeled over after that one time in the servant’s hall. For a while, Elsie had allowed herself to imagine a future where Thomas was willingly married to a woman, and perhaps able to finally have the family he so deserved and clearly wanted._ _ _

___She supposed it had been a fools errand, and now she felt the worse for ever indulging the fantasy to begin with._ _ _

___Daisy hiccuped and howled at her sitting room table, the cup of tea before her entirely forgotten as she instead soaked one of Elsie’s many handkerchiefs and cursed the name of Jimmy Kent. Elsie had comforted many a hysterical maid before, but even she felt slightly out of her depth as she fondly patted Daisy’s arm and tried to summon something to say._ _ _

___“There there, there there-“ was about the most she could manage at the moment._ _ _

___“I hate him! I hate him, I do! I want him to die! ” Daisy wailed into her hands, and for a moment Elsie feared she was talking about Thomas until Daisy brayed, “Why did he have to come back?! Why?! Why didn’t he just stay away?! After all he did to Thomas, Thomas loves him more than me- me!” Daisy dissolved into a new fit of fresh tears, “When I agree to marry him and care for him more than that cad ever could! I love him! And Jimmy just- just wants everyone to love him. He’s a bastard-!”_ _ _

___“Daisy!” Elsie winced with every foul word, “You mustn’t use such language-“_ _ _

___“But he is!” Daisy dropped her hands, and Elsie winced again at the sight of Daisy’s inflamed eyes so full of obvious misery, “Jimmy Kent is an utter awful evil bastard!”_ _ _

___And with that she brought her hands back up to her face to snivel into her hands._ _ _

___Elsie sat in silence for a moment, pondering her options, rubbing Daisy’s arm every so often to assure Daisy that she was still listening and still sympathizing. If it was a maid, Anna, or Baxter… Elsie could probably handle this situation by herself and not have to call in for reinforcements. Technically though, Daisy was underneath Beryl’s supervision as an assistant to the cook._ _ _

___Elsie nodded to herself, mind already made up._ _ _

___“Daisy, I want you to sit here, yes?” Elsie commanded, patting Daisy’s arm fondly as she rose up from her seat to push her chair into the table, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move from that chair. Drink your tea.”_ _ _

___Elsie ran a stray hand through her graying hair, careful to make sure she was tidy before leaving her sitting room and walking with clipped purpose to the kitchen’s. Just as she’d prayed, Beryl was in plain sight ordering a scullery maid on the finer points of washing a frying pan without using soap lest the grease flavor be washed away. Elsie stood in the doorway, clearing her throat to gain Beryl’s attention as her friend badgered the scullery maid like a cat to a vole._ _ _

___“-Don’t be daft! Put your elbow into it! Don’t be afraid to use more salt!” Beryl bullied, and just for good measure she pinched some more salt out of a holding bowl to plunk it into the heavy frying pan the mousy haired maid held. Beryl caught Elsie’s eye in the doorway._ _ _

___“It’s happened.” Was the only explanation Elsie dared to offer in the company of a lower maid. Beryl blinked._ _ _

___“What, end times?” Beryl asked in humored retort, “We get our marching papers then?”_ _ _

___Elsie narrowed her eyes._ _ _

___After a second of strained silence, Beryl pursed her lips and wiped her hands upon her apron. She didn’t look surprised so much as disappointed. Elsie wondered if Beryl too had been hoping that Thomas could marry Daisy without issue. Beryl undid the back of her apron, hanging it upon a wall hook as she walked around the kitchen island to follow Elsie out. The pair of them frog marched down the hall, and as they came upon Elsie’s sitting room Elsie hurriedly let Beryl in before anyone else could come calling. For Daisy’s sake she wanted privacy._ _ _

___As soon as they entered, Daisy looked up from her hands. Blotchy and tear stained, she appeared to have been hoping for someone else when she saw it was only Beryl, and Elsie’s heart throbbed in sympathy as she realized Daisy might have been expecting Thomas to return with her._ _ _

___Thomas, however, was on an ordered march through the heather… and even if he were just in the servant’s hall Elsie still wouldn’t have called for him. He’d done enough damage where Daisy was concerned._ _ _

___Daisy burst into a fresh wave of tears, head back in her hands as Beryl quickly retook Elsie’s abandoned seat at the table and put her great hammish around Daisy to sweep her into a hug. Daisy just kept crying, Beryl’s presence somehow the confirmation that her relationship was doomed._ _ _

___“For heaven’s sake girl, you’re going to give yourself an aneurism if you keep that up!” Beryl scorned, though it was in love. Elsie silently poured another cup of tea for Beryl, though she had a feeling it too would go un-drunk._ _ _

___“Jimmy Kent is an evil bastard and I hope he gets hit by a damn car!” Daisy howled, her voice muffled by Beryl’s breast._ _ _

___“Daisy!” Beryl barked, “Are ya mad- you can’t just go wishing death on people-“_ _ _

___“He kissed Thomas!” Daisy shrieked, jerking back from Beryl’s hold to glare venomously at both older women. Elsie blanched, not exactly thrilled to hear verbal confirmation, “I saw him kiss Thomas!”_ _ _

___Beryl swiveled around in her seat to look up at Elsie. The pair of them shared a well earned eye-roll; Elsie’s mind was suddenly filled with an image of James Kent kissing the pants off of Thomas. She didn’t know why but she had a feeling James was rather possessive if not needy when in the mood for love. She shook her head with a disappointed sigh._ _ _

___“And- and he’s convinced Thomas to stop takin’ his pills and-“_ _ _

___“Daisy we have told you from the very beginning that Thomas was not for you!” Elsie objected._ _ _

___“We have.” Beryl agreed._ _ _

___“Thomas is… of a different persuasion.” Elsie said in a rush, un eager to go into larger detail on the topic if she could avoid it. “For better or for worse-“_ _ _

___“Mostly for worse.” Beryl grumbled._ _ _

___“But he isn’t!” Daisy shrieked, gesturing wildly to her own breast with soiled hands, “He loves me! I know he loves me!” and with all the passion she claimed it, it could very well be true._ _ _

___“He loves you as one might love their sister Daisy-“ Elsie urged, momentarily causing Daisy to all but swallow her tongue in retort as her chin quivered dangerously, “And he has been allowing that love to fool him into thinking that this can be done. He is not the first man of that… inclination to try and change himself. He will not be the last, god save them.”_ _ _

___She supposed she ought to be grateful Thomas came to his senses, but it was difficult to do so when Daisy was the one getting hurt for it._ _ _

___“Society is not kind to men like Thomas-“ Beryl added, but at this Daisy cut across in a fresh wave of anger._ _ _

___“Jimmy’s not kind to Thomas!” Daisy dismissed. “Jimmy nearly had him arrested just for loving him! Jimmy’s a cad and treats him awful. I’m much better for him!”_ _ _

___But was she?_ _ _

___Daisy was imaginative, hard working, industrious, and incredibly loving. Daisy wanted a family and all that came with it.. the white picket fence of every woman’s dream. She often spoke her mind, sometimes with disastrous consequences, but her honesty was blaring when compared to the soft lies that Thomas often wove._ _ _

___James Kent was none of those things. He had a bizarrely hard realism about him that cut everyone out, along with a sneaking way of getting out of work if he could imagine it. He wasn’t loving, not that Elsie had seen… but she had a feeling there were two James Kents. One in the shadows, and one in the light. This was the biggest distinction between him and Daisy. Daisy did not need a flip-side; she was content with herself. Jimmy needed that second face to keep up the first._ _ _

___He was so similar to Thomas it was scary._ _ _

___“Daisy.” Elsie beseeched her, pressing her hands upon Daisy’s slim shoulders to squeeze them reproachfully, “I know you love him. I know it hurts. I know you think you’re better for him and that it can work if Thomas takes those pills and deludes himself just a little bit longer- but don’t you see that Thomas will never love you the way that you deserve to be loved? The way any man should love his wife? You deserve to be loved completely. For everything that you are and are not. Thomas never loved you in that way… and h never will.”_ _ _

___“Daisy, it’s over.” Beryl rubbed Daisy’s back as she said it, her thick hand soft and soothing upon Daisy’s tense shoulder blades, “Accept it now, let it go, and move on. There will be other men. Better men.”_ _ _

___Elsie had to agree. It wasn’t that Thomas was a bad man- it was that he was a bad man for Daisy. There were better men out there for her; Elsie was certain of it._ _ _

___Daisy had gone from wild howling emotion to numbing silence, and she blinked blearily at her teacup as both Beryl and Elsie consoled her. Something dark had passed over her features, something menacing that neither Elsie nor Beryl had seen before as Daisy raised her head up and shrugged off both women’s touches._ _ _

___“Not for me.” Daisy whispered, her expression suddenly stony as she wiped her cheeks, “I can’t give up till I’ve tried. I won’t be second best twice.”_ _ _

___“Daisy-!” but Beryl’s words fell on deaf ears. Daisy rose from her chair and headed for the door, opening it despite her employer’s protesting calls, and when it closed behind her retreating back both Beryl and Elsie were left in stunned silence._ _ _

___Beryl let out one angry huff after another, pushing sweat and orange curls out of her face as Elsie took Daisy’s abandoned seat and bitterly pushed aside the now cold tea._ _ _

___What a waste. Of tea and other things._ _ _

___“I’m going to kill Thomas Barrow.” Beryl declared, eyes raised to the ceiling as if to protest the very issue to Christ himself._ _ _

___“Not if Daisy kills him first.” Elsie said dryly._ _ _

___Beryl rolled her eyes, taking up her nearly cold tea to drain it in three hasty sips. If only there were whiskey in it._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___“Bleedin’ Daisy!”_ _ _

___Kick , stomp, grass flung to the air, large stones knocked aside-_ _ _

___“Bloody stupid little, flour dusted, vegetable chopping, pastry pushing twat!”_ _ _

___More kicking, more stomping, a whole thatch of heather uprooted. As they neared the edge of the wood. Jimmy jumped over a fallen log, feet smashing against the rotting wood as he focused his anger on a nearby oak, “Hope she chokes on one of her nasty ginger biscuits!”_ _ _

___Thomas watched, unsure whether to feel amused or concerned as Jimmy stamped again on the log, forcing it into several large chunks._ _ _

___They’d wandered together, the pair of them exiting through the courtyard on strict orders of Mrs. Hughes to make their way onto the many sloping fields that covered the west edge of the estate. The wood began there, and continued on all the way into the village proper broken only by the small seclusion that housed the Bates’ cottage. It was in these very woods that Thomas had hidden Isis, what felt like a century and a half ago. Now Jimmy was trouncing around the outskirts, violently beating at the brush as he lamented their situation with Daisy._ _ _

___Well, not really lamented so much as violently raised hell.  
But that was splitting hairs at this point. _ _ _

___“A nice weekend!” Jimmy spun about, cheeks blazing pink in frustration as Thomas idly swung his coat over his arm. “She actually had the gaul to say you had a nice weekend!”_ _ _

___Now Jimmy sauntered about Thomas, shoving this way and that though his touches were never hard. “Oh let’s see, how did your weekend go love?” Jimmy sneered. “Well on Friday me mum kicked it! On Saturday me old man threatened to smack me around, and on Sunday the local church wouldn’t let me bury me mum so I had to sit in a frozen lake and cry under a dock! How was your bloody weekend?!”_ _ _

___Thomas blinked._ _ _

___“Augh!” Jimmy snarled, and without warning he turned around fist raised as if to punch a tree. Thomas leapt forward, grabbing Jimmy’s fist to stop him before the blow fell; it resulted in a slight struggle as Jimmy fell back against Thomas’ chest seething while Thomas held him about the waist from behind._ _ _

___Jimmy’s heart was pounding. Thomas could feel it as his hand crept up from Jimmy’s waist. He buried his face in Jimmy’s hair, inhaling deeply so that slightest edge of peppermint graced his nose. The woods offered them refuge and respite; in the shade of oak trees on the outskirts of a massive property, they could hold one another as if society were kinder._ _ _

___Jimmy’s heart was beginning to slow. Thomas stroked Jimmy’s vest with his fingers, so tenderly loving the muscle just beneath._ _ _

___“Hush your temper.” Thomas whispered in Jimmy’s ear. Jimmy shuddered beneath his touch, taking a slow breath before sniffing heartily and straightening back up._ _ _

___“Don’t you dare take those pills.” Jimmy shook his head so that Thomas’ mouth was momentarily full of blonde curls, “Don’t you dare.”_ _ _

___“My darling,” Thomas almost laughed for the foolishness of it all; take pills? What utter rubbish._ _ _

___There had been a time before Jimmy’s touch when the prospect had been appealing. When Thomas had been desperate to swallow as many pills as he could stomach to ride out Daisy’s touch on an opium high. But now Jimmy was here… and things were different. Forever more, things were different._ _ _

___“My darling, I will never take those pills again.” Thomas smiled into Jimmy’s hair, arms growing tighter about Jimmy’s waist and chest. Jimmy reached up to squeeze Thomas’ arms tenderly._ _ _

___“Good.” Jimmy whispered._ _ _

___After a moment Thomas let go, pulling back so that he could regard Jimmy better. Jimmy’s cheeks were still slightly flushed, but looking much more aware of himself as he sniffed again and hastily ran his hand across his cheek._ _ _

___As he dropped it, Thomas took it up mindless to the moisture he found there. The pair of them began to walk through the woods at a leisurely pace… they had been ordered by Mrs. Hughes, after all._ _ _

___The sweltering heat of summer was fully upon them, and the shade of the woods was a welcome change both could cherish. Jimmy reached up to loosen his tie a little; Thomas was tempted to pull his bowtie loose, but then he’d have to do the damn thing up again and it wasn’t the trouble. Fro a moment there was absolute stillness save for the crunching of twigs and shriveled leaves underfoot. Jimmy kept looking over his shoulder like he thought they were going to be followed, but no one was there. They were quite safe in the woods._ _ _

___Jimmy seemed to realize this, leaning more into Thomas so that even as they held hands Jimmy’s other hand came up to clutch at the lapel of his coat. Thomas reached up with his spare hand to cup at Jimmy’s clutching fingers._ _ _

___“I’d rather marry you in a jazz hall but we could get married out here as well.” Jimmy said breezily. The tiniest thread of emotion in his voice would not be betrayed by his suave demeanor. Thomas smiled, never the less._ _ _

___“Mm, but the grounds so damp this time of year.” Thomas warned him, for the summer showers of England were notorious if not flooding. “Think of how muddy all our shoes will be. Besides, we’ll have more booze in a jazz hall.”_ _ _

___“Let’s forgo shoes either way.” Jimmy said, and there was a sudden giddiness in his voice that made Thomas smile in spite of himself, “I want to have a party without shoes.”_ _ _

___“And what will the dress code be?” Thomas teased, “Semi-casual?”_ _ _

___“Starkers.” Jimmy joked. Thomas laughed aloud, “Less to contend with when I throw you down.”_ _ _

___His words sparked a fire in Thomas’ belly._ _ _

___Being at the abbey for so long, Thomas had felt de-sexualized in several ways. Before Jimmy’s existence (such a strange concept to Thomas now), Thomas had been rather flagrant in his get togethers. Family trips to London had been the perfect excuse to crowd a darkened dance hall underground- half days had become moments for Thomas to cherish when he ran to York and sought out every seedy crawl that existed. It didn’t usually amount to much- men like he were a nervous breed and why shouldn’t they be when the bobbies were on their tails? Thomas felt sore to admit it now, but when he’d crept into Jimmy’s room that fateful October night, he’d been feverish with lewd thoughts- ideas of taking Jimmy as his lover dancing around in his head like rabbits scurrying from a gun when Jimmy had raised hell and thrown him out into a cold hallway. When Thomas had ventured with Lord Grantham to America he had promptly ‘busted out’ both on the voyage and in New York. By the time he’d been done, Lord Grantham had been ready to thrash him with a reed for his naughty behavior, but Thomas had no regrets. Life was short, and for men like him it was usually sexless. If he wanted to have a threesome with two very handsome and obliging crewmen in the back of someone’s stowed Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost… well… that was his prerogative._ _ _

___That morning, when Jimmy had allowed Thomas to slip his fingers deep inside, Thomas had felt that same stirring in his loins again. He was a heathen for all the wild thoughts he had where Jimmy was concerned, but after seeing Jimmy naked Thomas was determined to know his inner heat as often as he could. His tried and true patience was being put to the ultimate test… having Jimmy declare he was ready before Thomas knew for a fact he was ready. If Thomas had it his way, he would take Jimmy to bed this very night._ _ _

___But it wasn’t time. Jimmy was speaking out of courage, not honesty. By his own admission when Thomas had fingered him earlier, Jimmy had whimpered and begged “It’s too much, I can’t.”_ _ _

___They needed to take this slow, but that wouldn’t stop Thomas about fantasizing for hours on the moment when he’d finally claim Jimmy for his own. The very thought made his neck and cheeks flush crimson._ _ _

___“Oh you’ll throw me down will you?” Thomas joked darkly, squeezing Jimmy’s hand upon his lapel, “What if I want to worship your body, eh?”_ _ _

___“I don’t know how I feel about that.” Jimmy mumbled, which was only what Thomas expected if he were honest, “I might not be that worshipable-“_ _ _

___“Are you crazy?” Thomas demanded, the words blurting out past his lips before he could stop them. Jimmy flushed, the pair of them coming to a sudden halt as Thomas drew both of Jimmy’s hands up to clasp them tightly in one locked embrace. Jimmy’s aubergine eyes were wide, equal parts startled and pleased as Thomas pressed their foreheads together._ _ _

___He breathed in deeply, peppermint and heat filling his lungs._ _ _

___“You’re the most beautiful creature alive on this earth.” Thomas declared. Jimmy’s cheeks exploded with pink. “Your heart’s like a symphony.”_ _ _

___“But-“ Jimmy swallowed nervously. Thomas silenced him with a kiss, swift to cut him off before he said one more silly word. Jimmy was nothing short of an angel. He wouldn’t stand to hear the rest. “But if I want to make love to you, and you want to make love to me… then how do we decide?”_ _ _

___A fair question indeed._ _ _

___Thomas thought it over, looking left and right to the vacant stretching woods. They were utterly alone, and the day was waning. Mrs. Hughes had given them her explicit permission to take a walk. They ought to enjoy it while they could. After all, nothing short of a flat out argument and tears awaited them back at the Abbey._ _ _

___“Chase?” Thomas propositioned. Jimmy blinked, confused._ _ _

___“What?”_ _ _

___“I chase you.” Thomas offered, and Jimmy’s blush only deepened to a darker shade of red at the naughty implication of it all. Thomas leaned in close to whisper in Jimmy’s lovely ear, “If I catch you… I make love to you. You outrun me… you make love to me.”_ _ _

___He stood back to survey his handiwork and was not disappointed. Jimmy was scarlet, and breathless, hardly daring to meet Thomas’ eye as he stared at their interlocked hands instead._ _ _

___“But… where do we stop the race?” Jimmy asked, breathless._ _ _

___“The Bates Cottage.” Thomas offered._ _ _

___Jimmy swallowed audibly, his hands slipping from Thomas’ own as a coy smile started to grace his bashful lips. He took one step back, then another, and Thomas realized with a sudden coiling anticipation that Jimmy was getting ready to bolt. Jimmy looked up, smiling, but a sudden fear graced his face and Thomas blanched as Jimmy gasped at someone over his shoulder._ _ _

___“What- what’s he doing here?” Jimmy demanded in fear, pointing over Thomas’ shoulder. A sudden explosion of possible suspects (his father at the top) graced Thomas’ wild imagination, and he quickly looked over his shoulder to see who on earth had found them deep in the woods._ _ _

___ _

___No one was there.  
Thomas looked left and right, partly wondering if he simply wasn’t staring in the right direction… but then a high pitched cackling filled his ears, drifting father and father away as Jimmy Kent (the little shit) took off running. _ _ _

___He’d been taken for a mug- _damn him!_ _ _ _

___“Oh you little shit!” Thomas howled in a rage, ripping back around and springing forward after Jimmy. The bastard had gotten a good several paces ahead of Thomas due to his infernal ridiculous schemes, but that was no matter. Thomas would still win._ _ _

___“I’m sorry!” Jimmy screamed up ahead, laughing hysterically._ _ _

___“You aren’t even!” Thomas roared back._ _ _

___He had to win. He wanted that warmth heat with a fire in his blood. He would get his prize no matter the cost._ _ _

___In and out of the brush they danced, like Oberon and Puck, and in the court of fairies the rules of society fell to the wayside. Jimmy was nimble where as Thomas was devilishly fast. For every log that Jimmy could jump and dodge, Thomas could gain on him in speed. It wasn’t long before the branches and leaves beneath their feet turned into heather again as they burst through the clearing on the other side where quaint cottages lined up row to row._ _ _

___Thomas lungs were burning, too many cigarettes making him weak, but still he pushed forward. He was gaining on Jimmy as they rounded the bend in the outer path. The Bates’ cottage was in sight, their garden glaring like a neon sign to Thomas warning him his window was growing smaller and smaller to win._ _ _

___Jimmy jumped the fence, and Thomas was right on his heels. Even as Jimmy made the final bolt for brick wall of the Bates’ kitchen. Thomas used the fence as leverage to push off from. He flew forward, too fast for Jimmy to avoid, and without another word tackled Jimmy right to the ground. The pair of them fell in a wild heap of tangled limbs, and Thomas burst out laughing even as his lungs burned for air. The muscles in his legs jumped, exhilarated by the sudden race. Safe in his arms, Jimmy struggled faintly, grinning blissfully into the grass as he began to laugh as well. They were delirious in their euphoria._ _ _

___“No, no, no!” Jimmy’s blissful smile was in stark contrast to his protests as Thomas continued to press him into the grass, “No don’t- I made it here first!”_ _ _

___“Ah, didn’t touch the house-“ Thomas waggled a finger in Jimmy’s face._ _ _

___“I’m in the backyard!” Jimmy whined. “That counts.”_ _ _

___“Nah, it doesn’t.” Thomas shook his head. Jimmy’s blush was coming back, both from the heat of their race and from the sudden proximity in which they lay. Their legs, tangled together with Thomas on top, were pressed in such a way that their groins could almost meet save for the stiff fabric of their trousers and pants. Thomas’ loins began to stir as Jimmy chewed upon his bottom lip and took deep breathes through his nose._ _ _

___Thomas’ heart was still pounding, but he doubted it was from the race._ _ _

___Jimmy swallowed, shallow breaths puffing from his mouth now as he looked up at Thomas through glassy eyes._ _ _

___“We’ll have to contest it.” Jimmy whispered._ _ _

___Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Will we, I thought the rules were rather clear. I tackled you before you reached the house…” He leaned in whispering softly into Jimmy’s ear, “The prize is mine to claim.”_ _ _

___Jimmy shuddered beneath him._ _ _

___“Wh-when?” Jimmy asked, and there was sudden trepidation in his voice as if he expected Thomas to throw down and have at him in the Bates’ backyard of all places._ _ _

___He would learn._ _ _

___“Whenever you’re ready.” Thomas replied. Jimmy gave him a watery smile._ _ _

___“Yer too good fer me.” Jimmy mumbled. Thomas shook his head, parroting Jimmy’s words from earlier as he slowly rolled off to help Jimmy sit up._ _ _

___“Perish the thought.”_ _ _

___Their trousers were stained with grass now, and Thomas had to wonder just how many pairs the two of them were going to ruin together before they were dead and done. Hopefully a whole damn wardrobe._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___They spent the rest of the day in one another’s company._ _ _

___Thomas showed Jimmy how to use lye, a painstaking process that went all the slower because Jimmy wanted to make sure his jacket got cleaned properly while also avoiding harm coming to Thomas’ porcelain skin. Earlier Thomas had insisted that because of his war wound his hands were easier for the sacrifice, but that just wasn’t so. Thomas’ skin was a fair beauty, a prize for only the worthy to possess, and so as Thomas scrubbed both his and Jimmy’s jacket, Jimmy tenderly wiped at Thomas’ hands with apple cider vinegar to steal away and stinging pain from the harsh soap. Thomas ended up hanging both their jackets to dry in his room while they changed their trousers to get rid of the grass stains. Jimmy went upstairs to valet for Branson, and Thomas supervised dinner. Through the entire time, he kept one wary eye on the kitchen waiting for the end to come. Daisy, however, seemed to be filled with a stony resolve and Thomas had to wonder if they engagement was over. Was she simply going to cut off from him and let the rest go unspoken? Or was there one last bomb waiting to explode beneath her bonnet._ _ _

___Thomas could not help but notice she’d taken her amber comb out of her hair.  
He took his green pen out of his pocket and locked it in Mr. Carson’s desk drawer.   
It would serve someone else now. He’d rather have a shoddy pen than a shoddy life. _ _ _

___After dinner and the servant’s supper, Jimmy sat with Thomas at the end of the table working on jazz lyrics for a song that had apparently evaded him for months. Thomas enjoyed lyrics, enjoyed the snappy retort of words put to the flashy brass of good jazz; Jimmy was just desperate for his help. The pair of them sat hunched over the table, papers spread out between them; Thomas used a pencil, the absence of his telltale green pen unspoken though every now and then Jimmy would cast Thomas’ empty vest pocket a soft smile. The tea they drank was from a communal pot, and there were no ginger biscuits on either of their saucers… but that was the way it should be._ _ _

___Jimmy found himself thinking of their chase as they scratched out possible lyrics, of how it had felt to be knocked down by Thomas and crushed into the grass. Part of him had been undeniable frightened- Thomas was stronger than him, and taller. He was under no illusions as to who would be buggering whom when the time came. He’d heard it was filled with pain, that lovemaking between two men was often a dirty and disastrous affair… but Thomas had stroked him so lovingly with just his fingers. God only knows what he could do with his cock._ _ _

___Jimmy found himself staring at Thomas’ crotch without meaning to and instantly looked up embarrassed. Thomas was watching him with a knowing smile. Jimmy blushed in spite of himself._ _ _

___Jimmy looked down at the lyrics instead, mumbling them aloud as Thomas took another sip of tea. _“My love’s found in summer nights, when today makes tomorrow- My love wanders garden paths, hedges lined in sorrow…”_ He paused, looking up at Thomas. “What now?” _ _ _

___Thomas hummed the tune beneath his breath, remembering the seven fold beat._ _ _

____“Dearest love you are my heart, hedges will uproot you…”_ Thomas murmured. Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat at how lovely Thomas’ singing voice was. Even soft, half muttered under his breath, it was an incredible thing- Jimmy was determined to get him to sing eventually. He’d have to take it up with Jack Ross. _ _ _

___“S’good that.” Jimmy scratched down the lyrics immediately, “Plays on the garden path part.”_ _ _

___Thomas smiled to himself, carrying on as he mumbled into his teacup, _“Summer roads are where we start, so walk them or I’ll boot you.”_ _ _ _

___Jimmy snorted at the insinuation, “Whose gonna boot me? You?”_ _ _

___“Yes.” Thomas warned, setting his teacup back down, “And I’ll have you know I have excellent aim.”_ _ _

___He winked for good measure. Jimmy snickered, writing down the lyrics none the less._ _ _

___They were more or less alone in the servant’s hall. Baxter was keeping herself company by the fire. Every so often she’d look up and smile, but she didn’t make to interrupt them as she instead read a copy of _The Lady_ with her head bowed. The fire crackled low in the hearth; from far off Jimmy could hear the sound of two hall boys teasing a maid and getting scolded by Mrs. Hughes. _ _ _

___Thomas was watching him again. Jimmy set down their shared pencil to hold his gaze and revel in it. Those lovely green flecks were calling out to him, promising him everything he longed for if only he had the courage._ _ _

___“… Your eyes are the color of aubergines in the dark.” Thomas murmured. Jimmy felt a grin itching onto his face._ _ _

___“… A sea.” Jimmy replied, “A gray sea, after a storm… flecked in green. Like emeralds are floating on the surface.”_ _ _

___“Emeralds don’t float.”_ _ _

___“Bully for you.”_ _ _

___The pair of them grinned like children. Thomas doodled a strange swirling design on the side of the paper, framing their lyrics in a curling box._ _ _

___“… There’s nothin’ gray that’s appetizing.” Jimmy declared. Thomas nodded in silent agreement, “But if there were I’d eat it. All of it. Till I got sick.”_ _ _

___Thomas grinned._ _ _

___“How about I just buy you some emeralds and we’ll call it even?” Thomas murmured. It was a pipe dream of course, neither of them were rich enough for that sort of fancy living. But if Jimmy were to ever be purchased jewelry by Thomas he’d wear it every day of his life. He’d die in it. He’d be buried. When some grave digger tried to pry it from his cold clammy hands he’d leap by to life like a zombie and throttle them senseless. They’d make ghost stories after Jimmy and Thomas’ emerald… Jimmy was certain of it._ _ _

___Jimmy twiddled their pencil, lyrics suddenly springing to mind for the first time in his life. He murmured them aloud, reveling in the way that Thomas smiled as he spoke, _“My own love is strong and brave, who cares what comes for us. His eyes are gray like sea storms, his lips are carved and gorgeous.”_ _ _ _

___Thomas touched his lips; Baxter might think Thomas was just pondering, but Jimmy knew better._ _ _

____“He’s sharper than a knife box, and swears my eyes have color. But he’s a liar and a cad, and still he is my lover.”_ _ _ _

___Thomas stopped writing lyrics mid sentence and Jimmy grinned as Thomas looked up with a dry expression of slightest distaste._ _ _

___“How dare you call me a liar.” He grumbled. “And a cad too.”_ _ _

___“Oh cry me a river.” It wasn’t as if either title were untrue._ _ _

___“Bite me.” Thomas pointed the tip of the pencil at Jimmy with a vindictive demeanor, but the smile that graced his carved lips was so genuine and so sweet that while it bordered on saccharine it was also everything that Jimmy desired. It made the green flecks of Thomas’ eyes twinkle merrily, like holly in the winter._ _ _

___For a moment, the world seemed to be reduced to the pair of them and just the music they could make. The tiny details of Thomas’ outfit, the color of Jimmy’s cheeks… the way that beneath the table their fingers were interlocked. Peppermint and nutmeg swirled together, creating a wholly new scent that wouldn’t have been out of place at a holiday gathering. Queer, because when Jimmy was with Thomas (regardless the time of day or location) it felt like a holiday._ _ _

___It made Jimmy wonder at their futures, at what their life would be. He knew that they could not stay at Downton forever. For one, they were better than service despite the comforts it offered. For two, they were unaccepted here. Marrying Daisy would have been easy for Thomas. People might have been confused but they wouldn’t have put up a fight. With Jimmy, life would take a decidedly harder turn for Thomas though neither of them truly minded. Carson would always roam as an overlord underneath the Abbey’s steepled roof, and in Carson’s eyes Thomas was the foulest creature alive._ _ _

___Thomas deserved better, deserved a life he could live fully around people that loved him. In that moment, as Jimmy gazed on the man that had so captured his heart and soul, he knew he had to get Thomas out. Had to make a better life for Thomas just as his father had made a better life for his mother._ _ _

___“I want us to get away from here.” Jimmy murmured._ _ _

___Thomas nodded, quiet for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.  
“I feel quite the same.” _ _ _

___“We could be free, you know.” Jimmy whispered. He felt almost as if he were plotting an escape out of a jail. As if a warden could walk by any moment and snag them back to their cells for insubordination. “Just you and I… We could go back to London and work for Jack Ross.”_ _ _

___“But Jimmy,” Thomas murmured, “I’m not a singer-“_ _ _

___“You have a beautiful voice,” Jimmy praised sweetly, “You’re like a dove.”_ _ _

___Thomas flushed, beneath the table Jimmy caressed his hand._ _ _

___“Won’t you sing for me?” Jimmy asked, hopeful. “Just for me?”_ _ _

___Thomas snorted softly, head bowed. For a moment he was absolutely silent and Jimmy gave it up for a lost cause (though he never stopped stroking Thomas’ hand). He certainly wouldn’t force Thomas to sing, though he refused to back down from his point of view. Thomas had a beautiful voice, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it. Properly trained, it could be an incredible tool… Jack would be intrigued, Jimmy was certain._ _ _

____“I care not for the sun that shines, I dare not hope to e’re be mine-“_ But Thomas cut off, snorting at himself as if he suddenly found his escapade stupid. He touched his mouth again, nearly pulling his other hand out of Jimmy’s loving grip as he mumbled. “This is ridiculous Jimmy.” _ _ _

___“No, no it’s not!” Jimmy urged, leaning in. He knew this song: _Love Me and the World is Mine_. It wasn’t jazz but it was still a good number. Like all true classics it could easily be improved upon with just a bit of improvisation and a hot trumpet. “Keep going, I beg you.” Jimmy urged, “For me?” _ _ _

___From behind her magazine, Baxter poked her head out ever so slowly, grinning coyly at Thomas turning the color of a beet._ _ _

____“I care not for the sun the shines, I dare not hope to e’re be mine, I only know I love you so… Love me and the world is mine.”_ Thomas finished out, his voice so soft that Jimmy could barely hear it even sitting right next to Thomas with his ear bent in close. Despite being only the ghost of a whisper, it was still very lovely. Jimmy thumped his free hand softly upon the table in meagre applause even as Thomas ducked his eyes to hide his grin. _ _ _

___“Brava, but you have to tell me did it hurt?” Jimmy asked coyly. Thomas cocked an eyebrow though he didn’t look up._ _ _

___“Hurt?”_ _ _

___“When you fell from heaven.”_ _ _

___Thomas looked up slowly, his expression a mixture between livid fury and sheer humorous irritation._ _ _

___“Oh shut up.” Thomas grumbled, Jimmy just laughed under his breath._ _ _

___“Thomas?”_ _ _

___The laughter and joy of their conversation suddenly dried out as both men looked around to see Daisy standing in the doorway of the servant’s hall. Her eyes were lined in red, her expression woe-begone, and she seemed almost ready to fall over as she took a timid step forward towards both men._ _ _

___Jimmy bristled instinctively._ _ _

___“Can I talk to you please?” Daisy asked, in that same timid voice. Jimmy felt his jaw suddenly thicken with tension as he kept from snapping at her, “Alone? Maybe on the roof or…”_ _ _

___Thomas paled at the mention of the roof. Jimmy couldn’t fathom what horrors awaited him if he went up there, but it suddenly occurred to Jimmy that in this weird tug of war between him and Daisy, Daisy was under the impression she could still win._ _ _

___And the flat fact was, she couldn’t. Thomas was for Jimmy; Jimmy was for Thomas. The sooner she understood that, the sooner Thomas could get out of Downton and get on with his life._ _ _

___“No. You can’t.” Jimmy answered for Thomas, who was still yet to reply to Daisy’s request. At Jimmy’s retort, Daisy grew incredibly pale. Her jaw slackened as if all the useful words in her vocabulary had fallen out. But Jimmy still had plenty to say. “You cannot talk to him alone, you cannot make him take dangerous pills, you cannot force him to live a lie. You can’t.” He shook his head. “I won’t let you.”_ _ _

___Behind her magazine, Baxter grew incredibly still. Despite bearing witness to the entire affair, she was yet to utter a peep._ _ _

___“Are you…” Daisy’s voice was a weak quivering thing, and had they been in any other circumstance save for the one they now inhabited, Jimmy would feel right sorry for her. He’d never wanted Daisy to be his enemy, but when she took Thomas away from him, attempting to make Thomas marry her just because society preferred their union over the true one he held with Jimmy… it made Jimmy’s blood boil. “Are you going to just sit there and let him talk to me like this? When I’m your fiancé?”_ _ _

___Thomas jerked up from the table, scaring Daisy and Jimmy both. Daisy leapt back, her hand on her fluttering heart- Jimmy’s chair scooted a little on the unforgiving stone as he watched Thomas storm out of the servant’s hall._ _ _

___“Thomas-!” Daisy begged after him, taking a step as if to follow him. Before she could gain any sort of headway he was gone. Jimmy was grateful for it, hoped that Thomas was heading to his room to get some much needed sleep. Suddenly left alone in the room with Daisy and Baxter (though she’d yet to speak a word), Jimmy gathered up his lyrics to shuffle them upon the table. He moved to the piano, setting his lyrics down upon the case to free up his hand. He cracked his knuckles, numbing himself to Daisy’s presence as he a soft tune out._ _ _

___Jimmy found himself playing _Love Me and the World is Mine_._ _ _

___There was a soft scrape, as a chair was taken out from the table, and Jimmy tensed as he realized Daisy was sitting right behind him. Despite knowing the tune well, he found he could not play._ _ _

___Not when he still had something that needed to be said._ _ _

___“I won’t stop.” Jimmy spoke up to the air, still not turning around to see Daisy sitting behind him at the table. “I won’t stop lovin’ him. I won’t stop bein’ with him. There’s nothin’ you can do or say that’ll change me mind or shake me faith in him.”_ _ _

___He looked over his shoulder at long last, and found Daisy staring at him as if she did not know him. In a way they were absolute strangers now, lost upon a sea of bitterness where there had once been friendship._ _ _

___Had they really once upon a time been amicable with each other?_ _ _

___“He’s my fiancé, Jimmy.” Daisy whispered, her tone icy with disgust. Her eyes were locked on him, just as cold as her tone, “Is nothing scared to you?”_ _ _

___“He’s my heart.” Jimmy wouldn’t be shaken by words like ‘sacred’. “And I don’t care a nit about the rest.”_ _ _

___Daisy swallowed, truly unnerved.  
They sat in silence, their stare unbroken; the gap between them was a massive chasm, filled with the voices of society both damning and harsh. On one end stood Daisy, the obvious winner by society’s standards who surely had everything to offer Thomas legality wise. On the other stood Jimmy, with nothing in his hands but the true and honest love he felt for Thomas. _ _ _

___Jimmy was determined to win, for he and Thomas both._ _ _

___“You’re a cad.” Daisy whispered viciously, “A cruel and awful cad. You tore his heart apart, and made fun of Thomas for a year, just because he loved you. Then you go chasin’ Ivy when you knew Alfred adored her, an’ it drove Alfred away when I adored him. Now you’re back and what for? T’break Thomas’ heart again? T’break my heart along with it? I don’t care about him bein’ your heart. If you’d had a heart a long time before now it would have spared us all a bunch of grief.”_ _ _

___Jimmy would not be shaken._ _ _

___In a way he could admit Daisy was right. He had been wrong to ostracize Thomas after Thomas had so lovingly opened his heart to Jimmy. For a year, Jimmy had been cruel to hide from his own insecurities. Thomas had suffered for his weakness, and Alfred along with him when Jimmy had chased after Ivy. But Thomas and Jimmy had already had this conversation on a dark road one summer’s night. They’d shared their first kiss on its cusp, and Jimmy (though hardly a fully confident man) could now admit to the truths inside himself. Even if only to Thomas._ _ _

___Daisy couldn’t sway him. Not know when Jimmy knew who he was.  
“I love him, Daisy.” Jimmy declared, and though his voice was not loud the truth boomed between them. Daisy went pale again, “And you know he loves me… and that’s flat.” _ _ _

___Daisy opened her mouth, but no words came out. Jimmy supplied them for her._ _ _

___“If you try to tear us apart just because you’re a woman, and society prefers you more… well…” Jimmy shrugged, “You’re gonna fail.”_ _ _

___Jimmy heard the tiniest breath hiccup between them. Daisy was cowed.  
He turned back around and gently took up his lyrics from the piano cover. Admitting to the night’s end, Jimmy rose up and pushed in the piano bench to walk around the far edge of the servant’s table and exit for the stairs. _ _ _

___Daisy watched him go, one last plan forming in her knackered mind.  
But even she couldn’t have predicted what was to happen next._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold out for one more chapter (and an epilogue)! We're almost there! Thank you so much to everyone who reads and reviews. Your comments mean the absolute world to me. I read each of them with great anticipation.


	24. Stained With Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to the abbey was kicked shut by a roving leg as two hands with the strength of iron grabbed Thomas by the collar and throttled him hard, nearly choking his air supply off entirely as his head was smacked repeatedly against the brick. Once, twice, three times pain exploded in the back of Thomas’ skull, forcing a ringing noise to the surface of his confused brain as only one word flitted through his mind: Father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a trigger warning: The chapter includes **heavy child abuse and domestic violence**.   
>  This is the final 'chapter' of sorts. There will be an epilogue, and a sequel. The epilogue will be coming forth very shortly, likewise with the sequel. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and review this story. It has been such a pleasure to write out. I cannot wait to get started on the sequel.

On July 15th, 1925, everything changed. 

The morning dawned relatively calm and clear with only mild cloud coverage to block the rising sun. The weather was still warm, with a light wind blowing about. As the hall boys fetched coal and firewood the scullery maids began to set out breakfast. Among them, Daisy slowly sautéd a pot of baked beans with an absent expression. Her nerves came and went, at times making it impossible to follow Mrs. Patmore’s orders as she waited to see what the day would bring. She half expected to have a visitor by noon… but noon passed, and a visitor never came. 

Thomas awoke oblivious to the proceedings about to unfold. He’d shared his bed with Jimmy the night before, but had gone to sleep first so that while he’d fallen into bed alone he’d woken up in good company. He rose and dressed, went downstairs, and began his daily routine with nothing truly pressing on his mind save for Jimmy’s offer that they should go to London and work for Jack Ross. 

In a way, Thomas felt slightly afraid. Ever since his abandonment in childhood, the only life he had known was service. It hadn’t been his first choice, it had been his _only_ choice. Mr. Burland had not come to him a shop worker or a factory runner but a butler. Mr. Burland had not needed a shop assistant or a laborer… he’d needed a hall boy good looking enough to stand in for a footman. After fifteen years of servitude, Thomas didn’t fully know if he could live another life. If he could make such a massive career jump approaching his thirties. What if he and Jimmy went to London only to fall apart? What if jazz and gin turned to their ruin and destroyed them? What if Thomas would have to return to Downton, broken hearted and penniless to beg for his job back? He didn’t know if he could survive such a blow. 

To know Jimmy and then not know him again… nothing could be worse. 

He voiced none of these concerns, worried that he would spoil the glow of their newly installed relationship. Instead, Thomas contented himself with the daily routine of inventory, overseeing the hall boys and footman as Jimmy helped Mr. Branson to fit into a newly purchased jacket that needed some adjustments in the armpits and neck. Every time Thomas passed Branson’s dressing room on the gallery floor, his heart leapt a little at the sound of Jimmy’s jovial voice. so the day passed without much incident until the hour of three. 

At 3:23 in the afternoon, Thomas found himself walking down the servant’s hall corridor at a brisk pace, determined to get one final sweep of the silver polishing done before dinner that night which would host both Mrs. Crawley and the Dowager. As he passed by the boot room, he was taken off guard by the sound of Jimmy’s voice and had to double back as Jimmy called out to him, “Thomas- come here?” 

He poked his head into the boot room to find Jimmy gathering a symphony of supplies which he’d piled up atop Thomas’ old button box. Thomas smiled, somehow delighting that Jimmy carried around his button box all day long even if they could not physically be together in society’s eyes. 

Jimmy was sat upon a stool, hunched over the boot room table as he worked in peace on Branson’s new jacket. The sun drifting down upon Jimmy’s hair made him look more like an angel than ever, illuminating him with a halo that crowned his golden curls. Mystified, Thomas leaned against the door of the boot room and folded his arms over his chest. 

“Jacket giving you trouble, then?” Thomas’ voice was bizarrely soft. When had he grown into such an emotional numpty? Jimmy smiled, splaying his hands down over the fine dark brown velvet so that he could pet the fabric. 

“Just the buttons.” Jimmy admitted, “I took a few off to re-hem the edges, but now the time’s come to put them back on and one has gone missing. Have you seen one on the ground somewhere?” Jimmy tapped upon the breast of the jacket, and Thomas leaned in to see the buttons were slightly larger than usual- gold with a black edge. Thomas nodded absently, straightening back up. 

“I haven’t seen one.” Thomas admitted, “But I’ll be looking for one now.” 

The back door rang. 

Thomas waited for Anna or Baxter to come running so that he wouldn’t have to leave Jimmy and his lovely golden halo- the back door rang again, rather persistently, and Thomas realized that no one was going for its call.

“I’ll be right back.” Thomas grumbled, thoroughly put out as he left the boot room and headed down the hall. The whole way down, Thomas kept his eyes pealed to the ground, looking for a golden button with a black edge should Jimmy have dropped it along his path. Nothing crossed his keen eyes till he got to the back door, and Thomas unlocked it at once to open it wide. 

The courtyard was empty. 

He found it rather bizarre that no one was outside the backdoor when he opened it wide, but a ray of sunlight hit the stoop and suddenly illuminated a rather shiny gold button with a black edge. Satisfied, Thomas bent over and picked it up at once, dusting it off to pocket it. 

A shadow appeared upon the ground, lumbering and tall. Eager not to be caught bending over by their guest, Thomas straightened up at once- 

And was promptly slammed into the brick wall. 

The door to the abbey was kicked shut by a roving leg as two hands with the strength of iron grabbed Thomas by the collar and throttled him hard, nearly choking his air supply off entirely as his head was smacked repeatedly against the brick. Once, twice, three times pain exploded in the back of Thomas’ skull, forcing a ringing noise to the surface of his confused brain as only one word flitted through his mind: _Father_. 

He didn’t know how it was possible- what dire stroke of luck had fallen ill in his favor to put his father in the abbey courtyard in a terrible enough mood to slam him into a wall. The smell of whiskey was pungent upon the air, coating his father’s putrid breath as he leaned in hard and drug their faces together. He was spitting and growling like a mad cat, his suit disheveled and his gray hair in a mesh-up all over his face. His wild blue eyes were roving, utterly mad as he snarled, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?! Did you think you could pull the wool over my eyes a second time?!” 

Again and again, his head was rammed into the wall. Flashes of his childhood were coming back to him, of floors, cupboards, walls- of things he’d hit and had thrown at him- 

“Where is he?! Where is he?!” 

He was flung from the wall onto the ground, the unforgiving stone beneath him making for a terrible mattress as he bounced and lay still on the stone. His muscles did not seem to be working, making the scrambling of his feet look more like the work of a woe-be-gone crab than a man. Something wet and hot was on his face- Thomas brought a hand up to feel something sticky and wet at his temple- it stung to touch. Bringing his hand back down, vision foggy, he was distressed to see red. He was bleeding, profusely. 

“Where is this- this- Jimmy Kent?!” 

Without warning Thomas was pinned on his back, jerked around by the shoulder so that his swollen head banged against the stone again. Dazzling sunlight blinded his eyes but his father’s rancid breath happily brought him back to earth. He gasped and grimaced, turning his head from side to side in a desperate attempt to get fresh air and clear his head. 

“How do you know about Jimmy?!” Thomas scrambled against the stone beneath him, palms biting painfully as rocks and pebbles broke under his fingernails. Another crashing blow slapped him about the face, throwing him into temporary darkness once more as his father’s voice thundered in his ears: 

“You break the heart of your fiancé and you expect her to bear it alone- you expect her to suffer in silence while you dally about with your fancy man-!? She wrote to your sister- paper stained with tears, beggin’ for help, for what t’do. But I know what t’do-!” 

Thomas’ father let go of his collar so that Thomas collapsed against the brick; without another word he headed for the back door. 

Panic clouded his mind, completely obscuring Thomas’ perceptions of pain and punishment. Nothing mattered now, save for the fact that Jimmy was in danger from the one man in the world that could do him the most harm. A policeman would seek to arrest Jimmy; Carson, to humiliate. His father? His father wanted to kill Jimmy. 

Thomas rolled onto his belly, tearing several golden buttons from the front of his livery vest as he propelled himself forward on his palms and toes to grab his father hard about the knees. The force was such that his father was nearly brought down; Thomas scrambled to hold him still even as his father kicked him hard in the chest. The blow winded him, and he had to take several painful sucking breathes before he could manage to say, “You can do what you like to me, but you will never touch him! Ever!” 

His father responded by reaching around and grabbing Thomas by the collar again. Thomas gagged, nearly choking against his father’s hold as he snarled, “So you admit t’it then?!” 

And Thomas, ever the masochist, replied in kind: “Yes”. 

 

~*~ 

There were only so many places a button could wander off to. 

Jimmy had checked everywhere, or so it felt. First Branson’s dressing room, where he’d started off with the jacket, then the entire gallery floor, then the grand staircase, then the main floor, then the servant’s staircase— at this point Jimmy went stir crazy and checked the boot room. 

Thomas hadn’t seen the button either, but at least now there were two pairs of eyes looking. As Jimmy passed by Bates carrying a button box and a jacket to mend, intense dislike waged war with an equally intense desire to find his missing button. Irritability finally won out, and Jimmy back tracked down the hallway to find Bates searching for something in his coat pocket by the back wall. Clearly he’d brought something from home and kept it in his traveling coat. 

“Excuse me-“ Jimmy tried not to feel too terribly annoyed when Bates gave him a dry look over his shoulder, “Have you seen a black and gold button anywhere?” 

“No.” Bates didn’t sound too bothered either way. He withdrew his hand from his traveling coat to reveal a new pack of sewing needles. “But I’ll keep my eye out for it. Have you retraced your steps?” 

“Obviously.” Jimmy scowled. It felt like he’d been in every room of the house- though to be fair he hadn’t checked the courtyard yet. Earlier he’d gone out with Thomas for a cigarette break that had really been Thomas smoking and Jimmy munching on a stolen biscuit from Mrs. Patmore. For some odd reason she’d given him the silliest smile that morning, a simpering sad thing that was certainly not shared by Daisy. 

Daisy had looked oddly grave, unable to focus on even the most menial of tasks. 

“Where have you checked?” Bates asked. 

“Everywhere upstairs-“ Jimmy waved a vague hand. “I’m about to check the courtyard.” 

Bates grunted; with his complexion and irritable nature it made him sound more bear-like than ever. Unwilling to deal with the man for a minute longer, Jimmy happily left the hall, bound for the outdoors. 

But Bates was following. 

“As it happens, I’ve wanted a word with you-“ Bates tried to strike up conversation; his cane kept pace on the floor, tapping along. Just to annoy Bates, Jimmy walked a hair faster. 

“I don’t have the time for a word.” 

“You’ve got the time for a button.” 

“Well I’m getting paid to look for the button, aren’t I.” 

Bates made a disgruntled noise which Jimmy paid no mind to as he headed for the courtyard. As he approached it, he noticed that the key was laying upon the ground despite the door being closed. It wasn’t like Thomas to leave such a detail unattended to, and Jimmy stooped over to pick up key to dust it off. 

He made to unlock the back door, but found it already unlocked and paused again.   
It was one thing for Thomas to drop the key, it was another for Thomas to completely forget to lock the door entirely. 

Unsure of what was going on, Jimmy quickly pushed the key back in the lock, but did not make to turn it as he opened the door wide. 

Dazzling sunlight momentarily blinded him as the sounds of a someone being beaten bloody assaulted his ears. He stepped out into the courtyard at once, alarmed- 

Only to have all sensible thought flee from his head as his eyesight adjusted to reveal Thomas pinned underneath the overhang of the garage next to a pile of chopped wood with his father at his throat repeatedly cracking him across the face. Blood was spilling from Thomas’ nose and mouth. His left eye was swollen and dark purple- his livery torn and broken with several brass buttons gleaming on the ground between Thomas and his father. 

_“He doesn’t give a damn about who he has to hurt.”_ Thomas had said.   
_“Beats me till my ears ring. Till blood comes out my nose and mouth. Till my teeth start bendin’ in my skull”_  
_“My father is about as dangerous a man as you can get-“_

 

Suddenly Jimmy could see Thomas getting thrown about at the Thirsk fair. Could see Thomas with his arms pinned behind his back, screaming for Jimmy to run. To run and save himself. 

Jimmy had run like a coward that day because, just like before with his own father, he’d been afraid of the pain coming to him. Now, Jimmy’s fear of pain was suddenly being warred against by his equally intense love for Thomas. 

Thomas’ hands were up, scrambling against his father’s chest, trying to push him off even as his father cracked him again and again into the brick wall behind him. Those hands had cradled him, adored him, pressed into him and coaxed him to orgasm with such sweetness and understanding. Those hands had shown him places that he didn’t even know could exist inside himself. Those hands had become as precious to him as the life blood that pumped through his veins. 

An ugly awful wave of anger began to swarm inside of Jimmy- piping hot and making him see red. It was at times like this that Thomas would tell him to ‘hush his temper’… but this time he would _not_ be following that sagely advice. 

Charging forward with an angry howl, Jimmy reared back his fist, balling it tight to pelt at a hard angle and crack Mr. Barrow right in the jaw before he could so much as look around to defend himself. 

Pain exploded in his hand, making him wonder for a split second if he’d actually broken it- but Thomas was freed at last! 

~*~

Thomas didn’t know who his savior was for a moment, but was less than pleased to discover that they couldn’t punch for tuppence. Not that he was ungrateful for the help at the moment, what with his head being rammed forcibly into a wall till he was tasting brick dust in his mouth. Dazed and confused, Thomas was given only a few moments to gather himself but that was all he needed. He looked up, around, and was suddenly given a full blown view of Jimmy Kent with both fists up but one shaking rapidly clearing having just punched someone in the face. Thomas’ father stared at Jimmy, rubbing his bruised jaw irritably- his drunken haze seemed to diminish as he realized precisely who was standing before him and where he’d seen Jimmy before. 

His father sucked in a breath, fury exploding from him as he snarled, “YOU!” 

Just like before with the thugs at the fair, Thomas’ concern for his own safety went out the window as he jumped forward to take his father hard about the neck. Locking him in a choke hold, Thomas wrestled, swaying two and fro as his father now began to grab angrily at his neck, scratching and abusing the flesh of Thomas’ arms as he tried to get free. 

“Run, Jimmy!” Thomas yelped, his father’s thrashing nearly making him lose his footing. Jimmy seemed in a trance, like a snake swaying from side to side as he measured Thomas’ father up and realized just what kind of a foe he’d taken on, “Just leave it! Run!” 

But Jimmy did not run.   
Jimmy surged forward and punched Thomas’ father in the face. Again. 

Whatever logic Jimmy was aiming for, Thomas could not see it. Jimmy couldn’t punch and he wasn’t succeeding in hurting Thomas’ father so much as making him mad. Livid, even. Given that Thomas was hanging onto the man by the neck, this put him in a rather precarious position. Blood clouded his vision, and it didn’t take much for his father to sling him off like a wild stallion throwing its rider. Thomas was slammed into the wall, pinned there by the neck- that was about as far as his father got before Jimmy went wild and started scratching at his eyes. 

_I really need to teach Jimmy how to fight_ , Thomas thought, but had no more time for pondering as Jimmy bit, punched, and tore at every part of Thomas’ father he could reach in order to create a barrier for Thomas to hide behind. His father made a hard upper cut, just about fed up with Jimmy and his meddling, but Thomas yanked Jimmy back at the last second so that his father only caught air with his powerful fist. The sound it made, rushing through the air, was terrifying when Thomas considered it could have hit Jimmy’s face instead. The pair of them fell backward as Thomas tripped over a stack of logs a hall boy had set aside for firewood. Jimmy cried out, his feet going out from under them as Thomas fell painfully onto the wood. His father descended, a maddened look in his eyes- Thomas rolled, pinning Jimmy beneath him against the wood as he prepared to take whatever beating they were about to be delivered-! 

They were saved at last second by the sound of a sickening crunch and a new arrival, momentarily obscured as Thomas’ vision was full of Jimmy’s hair. He looked up, over his shoulder (a hot pain exploding in his neck as bones crunched from his earlier beating) and was amazed to see John Bates of all people holding his cane by the bottom. The top was up in the air, thrust at a weird angle while Thomas’ father clutched at his nose. Blood was spurting through his long fingers as he grimaced in obvious pain. Thomas suddenly realized the awful crunching noise he’d heard was his father’s nose being slammed by John’s cane. It must have broken. John looked furious, honey brown eyes blazing as he heaved an enormous breath and sat his cane back down to take up the top again. In the past, John’s self righteous anger had driven Thomas absolutely mental. Now he was downright grateful for it as his father clutched bitterly at his nose and Thomas helped Jimmy back to his feet. The pair of them scrambled at each other. Every time Jimmy tried to put himself in front of Thomas, Thomas would deflect and put himself in front of Jimmy. They ended up clutching at one another’s arms, side by side as John Bates effectively took the front position in their motley crew. 

“I thought something was going on.” John said as flippantly as you please. He looked over his shoulder, taking in how disheveled and smacked about Thomas was, and grew cold. Turning back around, John took up his cane again raising it high in the air as Thomas’ father looked up alarmed-! 

Thomas panicked, emotional sabotage overwhelming him as he let go of Jimmy to latch onto the top of John’s cane. He effectively held John back, giving his father a moment to compose himself as he staggered back and clutched at the brick wall behind him with a bloody hand. He was glowering, furious… but unharmed save for his broken nose. John could have broken his skull without meaning to. 

“John, stop!” Thomas begged. John dropped his cane a little, agitated. 

“Are you crazy?” John demanded, “Didn’t this man attack you-“ 

“He’s my father.” Thomas blurted out. 

John paused, eyes flickering wide for a moment as he looked back around to the gaunt and angry man leaning against the wall. Maybe he was starting to see the similarities between Nathaniel and Thomas Barrow. The broad shoulders, the sharp cheek bones, the gray eyes and the disapproving mouth… Side by side, no one could deny the lineage between them. Not even John or his cane. 

John set down his cane again, leaning heavily upon the head as he surveyed Thomas’ father with sheer disgust. He shook his head, bitter. 

But his anger was nothing compared to Nathaniel Barrow’s. 

“Father…” Thomas’ father hissed the word, straightening up and seething through clenched teeth, “You dare to claim me as your father. You wretch. You… You…” Thomas winced, trying to prepare for the blow, “You vile- you disgustingly low-!” Thomas’ father shook a finger before him, pointing vindictively, “You are a godless creation-!” 

Thomas’ heart throbbed in his chest. 

He ought to be furious. He ought to not care what his father thought of him, after a childhood full of abuse and an adulthood full of fear. He ought to sneer, to spit, to shove his father physically away and shout, _“You’re the vile one-!”_

But instead, for reasons Thomas could not claim to know, he felt horrible shame well up within him. The age-old feeling of not being good enough but desperately wanting to be so. 

How could he still long for acceptance from this man? When there was fresh blood on Thomas’ face and Jimmy’s scratch marks on his father’s neck? 

“Please-“ Thomas beseeched; John looked around at him like he’d officially tripped into the looney bin, “I-!” 

“I’ll never forgive you for this- this betrayal!” His father stuttered, too drunk to speak eloquently as he raved, “I should have strangled you in your cot- should have killed you in your sleep- I knew something was wrong with you. I knew it from the very moment you were born. You didn’t even cry like normal babes cry-“ 

But a hundred memories but ugly and pristine were swooping past Thomas’ head. Fragments from a distorted infancy when his father had held him during a bout of colic, or when his father had (in a rare moment of generosity) bought him a pear at the market after fixing his first clock. The idea that he hadn’t cried normally- had been different even from birth- frightened Thomas more than he could say, and he grimaced as he desperately tried to control his rapidly shifting facial expression. 

His father shuddered, as if overcome by a wave of nausea. “My god-“ He muttered around, raking a bloodied hand through his graying hair, “What kind of a creature are you?” 

His answer was a stupid, fragile thing: “M’ just a human being!” Thomas begged. 

“No, that’s not good enough-“ His father waved a hand wildly through the air, cutting the distance between them in his drunken rage, “That’s not good enough! If I ever see either of you again-!” He shouted, pointing both to Jimmy and Thomas in the same wild wave, “If I ever see either of you, I’ll kill you! You hear me?!” 

“You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” John did not seek to raise his cane again, but the implication was ominously clear. Thomas’ father was no stranger to threats, hardly a man to be ruffled by one random foes regard-

“You stay out of this, cripple!” Thomas’ father snapped, “You’ve got nothing to do with it-!” 

For some reason, the fact that it was Thomas’ father calling John rude names made it all the worse. As if, by demand of their fraternal bond, Thomas’ father ought to show John more respect than the average man. The result was such that despite begging for his father’s forgiveness Thomas could not hold back the sharp retort of, “He’s worth twenty of you!”

John said nothing to Thomas’ comment, save that the corners of his thin lips twitched upward for half a second. But Thomas’ father had never liked it when Thomas talked back to him; from infancy onward if Thomas didn’t use the phrase ‘sir’ in every sentence he could expect a clip on the ears. Yelling outright was asking for serious trouble. 

“And what are you worth?!” His father almost howled with cruel laughter at the concept. Thomas’ flushed an ugly red, embarrassed as Jimmy clutched onto his arms in eager show of support. “Not even the ground we walk on! Do you not understand what you are- what it means to the rest of the world- in the eyes of God?!” 

Jimmy let out a slew of angry noises like a trodden-on cat, his clutch on Thomas’ arms painfully tight as his nails dug in through Thomas’ torn and dirtied livery. A flash of golden hair caught the sun in the corner of Thomas’ eyes as Jimmy stuck in chin forward to jeer.

“You make him out like he’s a demon, but you’re the one bringin’ violence! You’re attackin’ your own son, doesn’t that make _you_ low? Christ Thomas may have dark days but he’d never raise his hand against a child- you can’t say the same!” 

Jimmy’s voice was the apparent straw to Nathaniel Barrow’s back. For whatever reason, while he could jeer and taunt Thomas all day long, he couldn’t stand to argue with Jimmy. Maybe it was because Jimmy wasn’t his child, or maybe it was because Jimmy loved Thomas. Either way, Nathaniel Barrow’s patience was officially up. He rubbed haggardly at his bloodied face with the back of his hand to clear his clogged nostrils, and shook his head rapidly in a growing drunken rage. 

“You-“ He seethed, pointing a bloodied hand at Jimmy who immediately took a step back though he kept a hard grip on Thomas’ arms, “You’re the cause of all this-!” The vicious anger in his voice was palpable as his volume grew. He was practically shouting by the end, “You’re the reason for this-!!” 

And then, in his rage, Thomas’ father’s eyes fell upon a slim handle jutting up from behind the stack of chopped firewood- a sharpened axe, stowed away for safe keeping. 

Thomas saw his father dive for it, but it was far too late. Alcohol seemed to speed him on, making him a faster opponent than Thomas a defender- even as Thomas stretched out his hands to stop his father mid-dive, his father had already snatched up the handle of the axe to kick at the neatly piled stack of firewood and wave his weapon above like a lit torch. John made a sharp noise in the back of his throat, arm up as if he thought that kind of defense would do any good. Before he could adequately get out of the way, Thomas’ father brandished the butt end of the axe at John and smacked him hard about the side of the head. John was knocked clean off his feet, staggering and falling to the ground in a splay of limbs and cane as he struggled to get back up. 

“I’ll kill you-!” Thomas’ father roared, and this time he brought the axe down blade first. Jimmy gasped, pulling Thomas back hard by the arms- 

But Thomas had had enough. 

“NO!” He shouted, and he wrenched his arms out of Jimmy’s grip with as much strength as he could muster to grab the axe by its handle and push back hard. The pair of them were locked in a duel now, dancing around one another as both men tried to weave the axe where they wanted it to go. 

“I won’t let you hurt him!” Thomas refused to give room, his muscles straining in his arms as he battled with his father for dominance over the blade. For every push there was a pull, neither men could seem to keep their grip on the axe handle for long- a loose pebble beneath Thomas’ foot was just enough leverage for Thomas’ father to scrape by. He wrenched the axe back from Thomas’ hands and before Thomas could stop him he smacked Thomas hard across the face with the butt end of the axe. 

Just like John, Thomas went flying. Unfortunately for him, a brick pillar was right behind him, one of the many lined supports for the garage overhang. Pain exploded in both the front and back of his skull, making it temporarily difficult to discern just where he was or what he was meant to be doing until he heard Jimmy scream. 

Diving again, Thomas sprang up from the ground and grabbed at the axe handle from behind so that his father was pulled backward several feet and forced to turn around. 

“I won’t let you hurt him!” Thomas felt and tasted blood slipping into his mouth from his cheek and nose as he shouted. 

Behind Thomas’ father’s shoulder, Thomas could see Jimmy being held back by John, who had somehow gotten up off the ground to take his cane like a barrier and hold Jimmy about the chest from behind. Jimmy struggled and writhed, clearly desperate to come to Thomas’ aid though John would not let him. 

“Don’t!” John grunted, almost thrown down twice from the force of Jimmy’s fighting, “You’ll get struck!” 

The sound of the back door banging open caught no one’s attention. 

“I don’t care!” Jimmy screamed; Thomas’ heart throbbed with an enormous sense of love, “I don’t care!!” 

 

_“I’d take on ten men to free you from a basement.”_ Jimmy had said. Clearly he hadn’t simply been blowing smoke. 

“What is the meaning of this-!?” 

Vaguely in the back of his dumbstruck brain, Thomas could register the new voice as Mr. Carson’s. Could gather that Mr. Carson was somehow now a member of their spectacle and probably ready to fire everyone involved for dirtying up the back lawn. It was with an ugly swooping sensation that Thomas realized he was actually grateful that Carson had come upon them. Part of him even wondered if Carson could talk some sense into his father. They were rather similar, after all… save that Carson had never attempted to kill Thomas with his bare hands. 

Surely he’d thought about it, though. 

Thomas was weak and disorientated, unable to hold onto the axe handle long enough to gain purchase on it. Thomas’ father easily shook his free, and threw him back into Jimmy and John. John dropped his cane at once so that as Thomas fell he fell into Jimmy’s open arms. Jimmy scooped him up from his fall, holding him tight to his chest as he pressed a hand over Thomas’ forehead. A steep burning sensation where Jimmy pressed his hand made Thomas realize there must be a cut on his forehead from the butt end of the axe. 

Thomas’ eyes fluttered open and close, his brain pounding as if he had a migraine. Dimly, he noticed a massive shadow coming out of the edge of the courtyard near the backdoor- the shape was clad in a tux and had a deep booming voice- Carson. 

“Family dispute, Mr. Carson.” John called out, his free hand stretched out to keep both Jimmy and Thomas back as Thomas’ father heaved one enormous breath after the other. The axe was still half-raised, as if he was having second thoughts of cleaving both their heads off now that other people were getting involved. “Thomas’ father was just leaving.” 

“Father-?!” 

For a moment, Carson sized Nathaniel Barrow up, taking in the similar gaunt appearance of father and son only to stop short at the bloody butt end of the axe. 

He took the smallest step back, only noticeable to Thomas because his eyes were lowered and happened to be fixed near Carson’s slick shoes. 

Thomas had been in battle, had gone to the Somme and to Flanders- Carson had never been in battle before, or so he assumed. Carson’s father had probably never been violent to him, either. Perhaps this was his first time being in immediate danger to his person; it made Thomas’ stomach twist and turn sickeningly with guilt. 

Carson looked over at Thomas; Thomas dropped his eyes again so that they would not meet. He didn’t want to see the disgust on Carson’s face when Carson saw how disheveled and torn his livery was. Didn’t want to see the brutal agreement with his father when Carson watched the blood spill on his bruised and dirtied skin. 

_“You should be horsewhipped!”_ Carson had snarled at him once. 

“Do you mean to say you did this to him?” Carson demanded, his tone quite grave. 

“And I’ll do more, god willing.”   
No mercy, no regrets, nothing but that domineering violence which had so destroyed Thomas’ childhood. Thomas’ father dropped the axe slightly, wiping at his nose again where fresh blood was beginning to spill. 

_At least now Carson’ll understand_ , Thomas thought bleakly. 

Carson’s mouth was slightly ajar, unnerved at both Thomas’ state and his father’s lack of sympathy. John kept silent, his hand still outstretched on the off chance that more violence were to spring forth. Jimmy’s breathing was strangely loud in Thomas’ ear. He could almost hear Jimmy’s heart jumping in each quivering gasp. 

Upon Thomas’ forehead, Jimmy’s fingers were now sticky with his blood.   
The stinging sensation had dulled, but only a little. 

“i should hardly think god has anything to do with this-“ Carson said, shaking a rude finger in his father’s face, “You’ll leave sir, at once. I won’t have scandal besmirch his Lordship’s house.” 

_Ah yes_ , Thomas thought with the slightest tinge of disappointment, _God forbid we have scandal_. 

“Scandal!?” Thomas’ father was outraged that the idea of small talk was more upsetting to Carson than Thomas’ nature, “The scandal’s right in front of you! You want scandal, there’s your scandal-!” He gestured from Thomas to Jimmy, both of whom bristled at the implication. But there was nothing they could do to stop Thomas’ father now as he roared, “You’re sheltering two sodomites!” 

Mr. Carson boomed, “I am doing no such thing!” With such loathing and contempt that Thomas’ felt his skin begin to crawl. He thought of the twenty pounds he had saved up, of the notion of looking for work without a reference now looming over his head again- it was worse than a guillotine. 

“Then what are they doing here?!” Thomas’ father demanded, gesturing bitterly to Thomas and Jimmy once again, “Well?!” 

Carson stuttered, stopped cold as he looked from Thomas to his father. For a moment, the air was full of panting as Jimmy and Thomas clung to one another and Thomas’ father waited with hatchet in hand. Like the executioner waiting for the call to strike, Thomas’ father looked to Carson for an ally in the norm. A line in the sand. 

For the first time in his life, Carson did not look so sure of himself or his stance. A man without true direction, without Hughes to keep him morally responsible or Lord Grantham to give him purpose, Carson suddenly had to stand for what he and he alone believed in. The consequences were ominous and dire. The victims obvious to count and name. Carson looked from Thomas, beaten bloody with Jimmy’s hand sticky and dirty upon his forehead, to Jimmy himself, frightened and shaking at Thomas’ side.

Thomas found himself thinking not only of the very first time he’d met Carson, but of the very first time he’d been afraid of Carson. 

When he’d met Carson, he’d been requesting the job of junior footman with Mr. Burland’s gleaming reference and a smooth handshake. His first thought had been that Carson was rather tall, and almost domineering if it weren’t for the fact that his eyebrows were so bushy and his nose so protruding. 

The first time he’d been afraid of Carson had been the week that he’d so foolishly kissed Jimmy. In Carson’s office, tail between his legs, Thomas had felt like a child again being beaten for things he could not control nor change. Once again, Thomas had thought of just how very tall Carson was… how, if Carson really wanted to, he could crack Thomas hard across the face and send him flying into the wall. 

But the Carson before him, standing between his father’s axe and his bleeding forehead, was not a domineering or violent man. 

He was unsure, even scared. 

Thomas implored him without words, beseeched him in silence as he stood up straighter beneath Jimmy’s grasp and kept eye contact. Carson bowed his head a little, eyes unwavering from Thomas’ own; the pair of them waged silent war, walking through each step- 

_Did you do something to deserve this?_ , Carson seemed to ask. 

_He’s always been this way_ , Thomas tried to say. 

Carson’s expression became stoic, hardened and recognizable from all the times past when he’d put his foot down. He ground his jaw, his bushy eyebrows knitted as he straightened up and turned to face Thomas’ father again. 

“You will leave sir.” Carson declared. “You will leave now, or I will call the police.” 

Thomas’ father scoffed several times, taken aback at Carson’s bizarrely liberal approach. 

Thomas on the other had was finding it increasingly difficult to breath; his emotions were waging war inside of him, threatening to spill over. 

Gratitude. Shock. 

 

“Call the police on me, will you?!” Thomas’ father was irate, “I’ll have my own charges to press!” 

“It’s your word against ours as far as I’m concerned.” Carson would have none of it, a hard hand sweeping aside any evidence of foul play on Thomas’ part, “and Mr. Barrow has more than enough physical evidence on your head to trump any verbal accusations you may offer.” 

“Then you’d lie-“ Thomas’ father clenched his hand tight around the handle of the hatchet, making the wood squeak, “You’d lie to the police- you’d lie to British justice?!” 

And here was the real mark, because how often did Carson squawk and holler about the mighty ways of English justice and how England was the cradle of the world’s great civilizations? It was a way of life for him: Lord Grantham, queen, and country (in that order). If he was willing to lie for Thomas’ sake- lie to the police and British justice as a whole… Thomas would never be able to look at him the same way again. 

For so long, Thomas had thought that Carson had hated him, had imagined him a man without a heart. 

But as Carson looked him up and down, without the slightest hint of malice, Thomas realized that perhaps Carson had only misunderstood him. Carson may have wanted him gone from time to time, but he’d never wanted Thomas dead. 

“… I might.” Carson finally answered. Thomas heard Jimmy let out the tiniest breath of disbelief, his hand slipping a little upon Thomas’ bloodied forehead in shock. John was mildly impressed, staring at Carson as if in a whole new light. 

Thomas shook his head, slow on the uptake, “…Mr. Carson.” He croaked, staggered, “I… I…. don’t know what to say. Thank you.” 

Carson nodded his head, if only a little bit.   
It was more than enough for Thomas. 

Thomas’ father was inconsolable, watching how Thomas spoke to Mr. Carson. Had Thomas been detached from the situation and able to view it properly without fear, he might have realized that his father was just the slightest bit jealous of the respect that Thomas showed to Carson. Thomas father’ couldn’t see the years that Carson and Thomas had spent dragging one another through the mud. The number of times Carson had threatened Thomas with eating in the yard or comparing him to an animal… the way Thomas had stollen from Carson’s own wallet and had made it his solitary goal to drive Carson up the wall. All he saw was his only surviving son- his oldest and most problematic child- treating another man with that same venerable respect that he’d always so desperately desired in his own household. 

He was stuck; no one would back his side, and with both John and Carson to stop any instigated violence, his hatchet came in about as much use as a potted plant. 

Drunk and furious, Thomas’ father turned this way then that, looking partly as if he wanted to attack the lot of them, and partly as if he just wanted to leave. 

Nathaniel Barrow’s temper was infamous, and his common sense was low. The death of his beloved wife rendered him incapable of expressing his emotions- his pain- clearly. All he could do now was vent and rage. Whoever got caught in the cross fire was the unlucky victim of a cruel situation. 

Like a clock wound too far, Nathaniel Barrow’s final measure of patience snapped with all the force of a taut piano wire. He reared back, hand and hatchet up- and suddenly Thomas knew what he was about to do. 

It was difficult to say who moved first. 

As Thomas’ father took a giant step forward, arm wound back to let the hatchet fly, Thomas jerked out of Jimmy’s grip and threw his gloved hand up to catch the blade. Some haired-brained scheme in Thomas’ mind told him that the leather of his glove would protect him from the blade despite the fact that the axe could clearly chop through wood and was obviously sharpened. The blade, despite having been launched at Carson’s face was clearly meant for Thomas. Somehow, Thomas knew that he had to catch it. That he had to stop it before it hit Carson and wounded him. 

Thomas’ father was Thomas’ responsibility. Thomas’ personal demon.   
That axe was his axe. 

Carson was no unfortunate victim caught in the odd cross fire.   
Carson was- well… Carson. 

There had even been a time when Thomas had hoped for Carson’s approval. To gain from him the same loving respect that he’d had in Mr. Burland. Of course, over the years he’d seen that wasn’t to be… 

 

But… he had hoped-   
He had- 

 

Infuriated, invigorated, knowing nothing but the pain in his heart and head, Thomas threw his hands out and successfully blocked the axe’s path. As the blade came across, Thomas watched it with bizarre detachment. As it touched his skin and blood began to flow, Thomas did not fully comprehend what it all meant. He was almost dulled to the pain that followed, only sensing that it was somehow icy cold in sensory perception and shouldn’t have been. 

Thumb clutched under and three fingers clutched over, Thomas stopped the axe blade mid-throw. It fell, heavy head first, and clanged with an ungodly clamor upon the stone courtyard. Blood was all over the blade, dotting the ground as it fell in fat droplets. Thomas brought his injured hand to his chest, and only as he cupped it to the front of his dirtied and torn livery did he realize something was not right with his hand. 

Mainly, he was holding something in his hand, and hadn’t been before. 

Thomas’ father had gone white, stunned by his own act of rapid violence. He stared, horrified at Thomas’ chest- at where his hands were cupped. Thomas looked down, unsure of what was going on. Something odd was in his hand, shaped a bit like a sausage. His hands were coated in blood, to the point where it looked like he was wearing red gloves, and his shirt was dripping almost to the belt. 

Frightened of what he’d find, Thomas opened his cupped hands just enough to see, and his stomach flipped at the sight of his detached pinky finger laying neatly in the palm of his wounded hand. It had been cut clean off. 

“Oh.” Was all that Thomas managed to say. He sounded mildly surprised, as if he’d just received an unexpected telegram instead of losing a finger to a blade. 

For a moment, he could not process the next logical step.   
Should he verbally acknowledge what had just occurred, or…? 

A golden blur shot past him, rimmed in blue and brown. Jimmy had leapt forward like a wild panther, spitting madly with his hands outstretched to claw out his father’s eyes. He didn’t get far; Carson grabbed him by the back of the neck and jerked him backward so that he nearly fell onto the wood pile a second time. 

“Ring the police, James!” Carson ordered. Jimmy would have none of it, maddened past the point of logical thought flow. He tried to dive again but Carson grabbed him back, “James, now!” 

Jimmy was torn between vengeance, caring for Thomas, and taking action. Seething, he turned to each direction, eyes glazed- he stretched out his hands to try and take Thomas’ bloodied hands. Carson drug him unceremoniously away and shoved him for the back door. 

“James!” Carson barked. 

Jimmy finally ran, bolting flat out for the door to yank it open so that it banged against the outdoor wall. He vanished into the gloom, leaving a morbid group behind. John was sizing Thomas’ father up, seemingly trying to calculate whether it was a good idea to start a fight or let the dog lay. Like Jimmy, he didn’t seem to know where to turn or what to say. 

Mr. Carson did not have that problem. 

“Your clock is ticking, Mr. Barrow.” Carson warned, his voice gravely sinister. Thomas had only heard Carson direct such a tone towards him in the past, never another. 

Thomas’ father was still numb, ashen faced as he stared at Thomas’ hands dripping with blood onto his now ruined livery. He didn’t seem able to look away, his eyes glued to the way Thomas cupped his hand to his chest as if holding a baby bird instead of a decapitated finger. 

“My clock.” His father repeated, numb. 

“Run, da.” 

It was difficult to know why he said it. Some kind of family loyalty that he could not put asunder despite the pain in his hand and the finger cupped against his chest. His mother was dead, and he’d not even been able to attend her funeral, but Thomas had loved her so and knew that she wouldn’t want his father in prison. Despite fearing him, at times even hating him… Thomas didn’t want him in prison either. He’d rather his father remain detached from him, alive and well but un interfering in his life. It was too much to hope for at this point that they would ever get along. 

He pointed a finger in Thomas face, swallowing several times before he seemed to get the nerve to speak. 

“You will never see your sister again.” He finally uttered, and with that he was gone. 

Around the bend he went, leaving behind him a trail of kicked up dust and speckled blood as it dripped from the tips of his fingers. At the end, near the gate to the outer lawn, he broke into a run; it seemed that the farther away he got from the ‘scene’ the more he came to be aware of what he’d done. Thomas watched him go, wondering if they’d ever seen one another again. 

The first time he’d been kicked out of the house, Thomas had been terrified. Only after the fear had died down, safe in Mr. Burland’s care, had Thomas been able to start on the sensation of misery and bitterness. Now, an adult with a somewhat steady job and several pounds in savings, Thomas felt nothing but sorrow. He didn’t know if he would ever see Margret again or not. He liked to believe that he would- that Margret (knowing where he was now) would not be put off by his father’s drunken threats. 

But then Thomas thought of Danny, his cherub face peppered in bruises, and his heart sank even lower. 

He’d failed Danny, today. 

Jimmy was back, bursting over the threshold (the door still wide open) to run flat out across the courtyard before skidding to a halt in front of Thomas. Nothing Thomas’ father’s absence only in that he did not start a fight twice, Jimmy took Thomas’ injured hands in his owns to try and see the damage. He was not the only one that wanted to get a peek. John was likewise trying to get Thomas to pull his hand back from his chest; a massive red patch of blood now sat like an open heart cavity atop Thomas’ breast. 

Carson walked a good three paces away, craning his large warbling neck to see if Thomas’ father was truly gone or just hiding in the brush. Ever the stickler for detail. 

“The police are on their way,” Jimmy said in a rush, his breath hot against Thomas’ skin as he panted, “What did it do-?” 

By ‘it’ Thomas assumed Jimmy was referring to the bloody hatchet on the ground between them. He replied as politely and straightforward as he could. 

“Cut off a finger.” Thomas said. 

“Are you certain?” John demanded. 

“I’m holding it.” 

That seemed an adequate explanation for all involved; suddenly his clutched fist was no longer pried at as Jimmy cupped Thomas’ bloodied hand between his own and John started pushing him for the back door. Carson lead the charge, so large and squawkishly in charge that he could not be denied or put asunder as he blustered, “Inside. Inside quickly.” 

The minute they were over the threshold and out of the sunlight, Carson quickly closed the backdoor and locked it securely. He even took pains to put up the deadbolt which only was generally used after lights out. Mr. Carson’s office was- unfortunately for the four of them- down the hall past Mrs. Hughes’ office. Unwilling to travel that far, Carson commanded, “Use Mrs. Hughes’ office. Don’t touch anything, Thomas.” 

It was a weird shuffle as John opened the door to Mrs. Hughes’ office while Jimmy helped Thomas into the first chair he saw by her side table. Thomas felt incredibly filthy next to the sudden opulence of stained glass lamps and clean lace doily’s- with blood continuously oozing down Thomas’ chest where he clutched his crippled hand, he felt frightened to move. 

Carson blustered past the door, so that Thomas suddenly heard Mrs. Hughes’ voice just out of range saying, _“-Is that blood?!”_ followed by Mr. Carson’s hastened, _“Ring for Dr. Clarkson, there’s been an accident.”_

Jimmy was pulling at his hand, ginger and careful as he slowly detached Thomas’ fingers from the sticky front of his bloodied livery. The entire outfit was ruined now, half the buttons missing and the pants torn up the side. 

As soon as Thomas’ hand came away from his chest, both John and Jimmy were given a front row view of the ugly dark gash that was now the stump of his once-pinky. The digit rolled like a macabre baby carrot in the palm of Thomas’ hand, and Thomas stared stupidly at the nail of his pinky wondering that he could now pick up his detached finger and observe it from any angle if he so chose. 

“Ice.” Jimmy blurted out, “We need ice.” 

“And water, and rags-“ John added, but before either of them could move to acquire their newfound materials they were stopped by the arrival of Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson in the doorway. Hughes already looked disturbed, no doubt informed as to the nature of Carson’s ‘emergency’. Thomas cupped his bleeding hand back ot his chest, hiding it with his other hand as Carson came around Thomas’ chair and observed his sorry state with detached horror. 

“Best not look-“ Carson urged Mrs. Hughes, but she waved him off with an irritable hand, bending low over Thomas so that their faces were parallel as she studied his bloodied hand with a scrutinizing gaze. 

“I can handle it.” Mrs. Hughes, murmured, and despite how the tips of her fingers would not doubt become tainted with blood, she reached out to gently cup Thomas’ wounded hand in both her own. Her fingers were cool and smooth as she unfurled his fingers- as she saw the pinky laying in the center of his palm she nodded to straighten up once more. 

“I’ll fetch some ice and some bandages.” Mrs. Hughes declared, “And see what I can do in the way of a shirt. Just keep him still-“ And with that she was gone, moving at a speed Thomas would not have assumed of her given her age. 

“I’m so sorry-“ Thomas felt the words pass his lips as Carson drug a hand through his thinning hair and John looked on dumbfounded. Every time either he or Jimmy would turn for rags or something to help with the bleeding, they would almost get distracted by how disheveled Thomas’ state was. 

Thomas, himself, was in such a state of shock that he couldn’t even find it in him to feel pain at his fresh wound. He kept clutching at his pinky, amazed that there wasn’t a fifth finger to curl around the digit in his palm. 

“I’m so sorry-“ Thomas mumbled again, until Jimmy cut him off with a resounding, “No!” 

“Jesus Christ, Thomas.” Jimmy snapped, taking Thomas’ face in both his hands to try and shake him out of his stupor. Thomas felt as if he were detached from his own body, floating high above the scene while chaos reigned below. “How is any of this your fault- just can it, you numpty brain!” 

“Margie-“ 

“David can take care of Margie.” Jimmy snapped, “Don’t forget she’s got a husband, yeah? She’s hardly lacking in protection.” 

And of course, bless Jimmy’s beautiful golden soul, that all made perfect sense. So intent on saving Margie was he that Thomas had forgotten entirely about Margie’s husband- Danny and Tommy’s father. David was a sensible chap, a smart and strong lad. He’d take care of Margie- he’d make sure she was safe. Make sure Danny was safe. 

“Don’t you worry.” Jimmy pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket with shaky hands, folding it several times before pressing it to Thomas’ open wound to try and stem the blood flow. It was like throwing a pebble into the thames. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” 

Mrs. Hughes was back, tea towels under one arm and a spittoon sloshing with water and ice in the other. She set the spittoon down upon her side table, dropping her tea towels to take one up and dip it low into the basin. She withdrew it, wringing the cloth out before taking up a piece of ice and wrapping it up tight to present the entire bundle to Jimmy. Jimmy took it at once, pulling back his now soaking handkerchief to instead press the ice to Thomas’ gaping wound. 

Thomas distantly felt pain- hot incredible pain- in his hand… but could not find it within him to make a sound. 

He supposed he might be in shock. 

“What happened?” Mrs. Hughes pressed, looking first to Thomas then Carson over her shoulder who was still frantically running his hands through his hair, “How were you attacked? Did someone do this to you?” 

“N-no.” Thomas lied, thinking of his father in prison and his mother weeping from heaven, “No. I … I fell.” 

Fell on what? An active meat grinder? 

“You fell.” Mrs. Hughes repeated, clearly not believing a word of it as she soaked another tea towel to now dab at Thomas’ face. 

“On a hatchet.” Thomas said, his dumb brain concocting a bizarre story that he might spin if only his lips and tongue would form the appropriate words. 

Yes, he tripped and fell on the wood pile out back. All these bruises and breakages were from the wood. The hatchet had done the rest. Perhaps popped some of his buttons as well as hacking off his fingers. Yes, that made sense. Sort of. 

Before Mrs. Hughes could poke any more holes in his ridiculous story, the sound of the back door ringing stopped her dead, and fear suddenly flooded Thomas’ heart all over again as Jimmy spoke up, “That’ll be the police.” 

What story could he give them? If he spouted some nonsense about falling on a hatchet, they’d tear through his lie in a minute. Suddenly the pain in his hand became very real as Thomas looked up at Jimmy terror stricken. Jimmy wiped at his face- Thomas suddenly realized he was drenching in sweat. 

“Do you require the police for falling on a hatchet?” Mrs. Hughes asked warily. 

“Please- please don’t say anything!” Thomas begged, first to Mrs. Hughes, then to Carson, finally to John who was the wariest of them all, “Please!” 

Mrs. Hughes sighed bitterly, reaching out to brush at his hair in a fondly maternal streak as she left the room. Her absence only made Thomas’ fear reach a new pitch as John asked, “Is that the story we’re using?” 

“I-“ Thomas blundered, the sound of footsteps in the hallway drawing closer. 

“Better come up with one quick.” John urged. 

But Thomas was weak, exhausted, and confused. His head was pounding, his heart racing, and he felt he might vomit at any moment. In a last minute effort to save his father from prison Thomas begged, “John, _help_ me.” 

John replied, “Say nothing till I’m finished-“ A finger raised in warning to the entire room.   
Thomas sucked in a breath as Mrs. Hughes’ door opened again to reveal Mrs. Hughes flanked by two policemen. Upon seeing Thomas hunched and bloodied in his chair, the first one proclaimed, “What ho! Seems we’ve missed quite the fuss today-“ in a truly obnoxious way. 

Thomas did not care for policemen even at the best of times, and now in such a dire position with his pinky finger chopped off like one of Mrs. Patmore’s sausages, Thomas felt even more frightened than usual. Carson was sweating profusely, his eyes locked on John even as Jimmy nervously came to stand around the backside of Thomas’ chair and braced his hands upon his shoulders. 

“Have you rang for the doctor?” The other policeman asked at once, regarding how much blood lay on the front of Thomas’ livery and trousers. 

“He’s on his way.” Mrs. Hughes said. Her eyes flickered back and forth between John and Thomas, waiting to see just how this would all unfold. 

“What happened here?” The first policeman asked, retrieving a green spiral notepad from his pocket which he flipped open to begin hastily scrawling upon with his pencil. 

Thomas stuttered, paling as he considered possibly weaving the hatchet tale again. But then, before he could even open his mouth, John began to speak. 

“A man came into the yard and tried to force his way through the backdoor.” John explained, and the first policeman turned a little in his direction to acknowledge his story, “Thomas- Mr. Barrow, here-“ John gestured to Thomas sitting in the chair, “Caught him and held him off. The man used a hatchet on him.” 

“The very one we saw in the yard?” the second policeman asked, gesturing over his shoulder with a finger. 

“The one and the same.” John agreed. The first policeman kept scrawling on his spiral pad. 

“And the man now? Did you apprehend him?” The first policeman asked as the second stooped over Thomas to observe his wounded hand. Thomas shrunk back, feeling certain that the policeman would be able to see everything then. That he would look through Thomas and take him for a mug in an instant- know that Jimmy was his lover, that his fate was from a violent and disappointed father. 

_If they knew, they would take me away_ , Thomas pondered. Still he said nothing. 

“He got cold feet after he used the hatchet and ran. We attempted to pursue, but-“ John gestured a little with his cane, earning him a small ‘ah’ in sympathy of the first policeman. “It was little use. He should be nearby though.” 

“We’ll have our men comb the woods. What did this man look like?” The second policeman ask, and the first flipped a page in his spiral notebook to keep scrawling as John said, 

“Tall, well built, graying hair-“ but the rest of John’s sentence suddenly fuzzed out as Thomas slumped over in his seat and felt a cold shudder overtake him. His head was dizzy, his heart pounding in his ears- blood loss, he was certain of it. 

He wondered if Edward had felt the same way when he’d slit his wrists- 

The edges of his vision went black and for a moment he knew nothing save that something was undeniably wrong. When he came to he was nearly upon the floor, Jimmy’s arm across his chest and Mrs. Hughes at his front with a waste basket in her hands. Thomas realized he’d vomited twice, blood pooling in his lap as his hand fell from his chest. The iced tea towel lay dropped on the floor, making a puddle as it melted. Someone was talking to him, even slapping him in the face, but Thomas couldn’t make out who or why. It all seemed very silly. Surely he could do without being smacked in the face. 

He was going black again. Snippits of conversation were filtering through, but none of it made sense. 

_“He’s in shock.”_

_“Let the doctor do his work.”_

_“-You caught the blade with your hand, didn’t you?”_ … Clarkson had somehow arrived. 

Someone was trying to help him up. Peppermint filled his nose, and Thomas closed his eyes as he staggered to his feet. He was shaking, incredibly cold, and felt a hot pinching pain in his wounded hand as if someone had put a clamp on his wound. 

They were moving, and suddenly there was wind on his face. Sunlight. It was still dark in his mind, still fuzzy and confused. Gravel beneath his feet- a leather backing as if he were sitting on an armchair. 

No, a car seat. Definitely a car seat. The smell of peppermint left his noise as the sound of arguing voices faded into absolute blackness. 

Thomas chased that scent into the darkness, hoping he’d find Jimmy at the bottom if he searched hard enough. 

~*~

Once, when Charles had been younger, he’d been faced with a dangerous situation. 

He’d been in his twenties, still attempting work with Charming Charlies, and had been at an after party for a show that had gone relatively well. Alice had been sitting quietly in the corner, sipping on tea that was slightly spiked with gin. He’d shown her a trick with a mint leaf, hoping to impress her, and had succeeded in making her laugh. Unfortunately for Charles, he’d also caught the attention of a rather stoic stage helper, Joe, who had been downright irritated that Alice had shown favor to Charles over him. As the night progressed, Joe had drank (like all of them) and by midnight had been three sheets to the wind. Alice, at some, had openly declared that Charles was her favorite. 

Charles had been bolded by the warmed wine in his veins, and had gently kissed her hand. He’d meant only the most gentlemanly intentions by it… but Joe had promptly lost his head. 

Charlie Grigg had been at the bar, showing off to Alice’s sister and being a cad till he’d heard Joe shout _“I’ll kill you!”_. When he’d looked up, Charles had been flat on the ground with Joe atop him, trying to break his neck. 

Charlie had leapt over two tables, a settee, and Alice herself in order to pry Joe off before beating him black and blue. 

Charles heart had still been pounding for an hour after that, and the next morning there had been bruises on his neck where Joe’s strong hands had been. 

Now, nearing his seventies and sitting quietly at Elsie’s side table, Carson gladly accepted the tall glass of margaux that she poured for him and sat rubbing at his mouth with the back of his curled hand. The light was low from the brass lamp upon the table, casting the whole room into softened shadow. It made Elsie look more lovely than usual, a hard feat to attain given that she was beauty incarnate even at the most haggard of times; he soaked up the sight of her and tried to find a sense of peace in the safety and solitude of her office. 

He was safe here. He was certain he was safe here.   
But shadows of Mr. Barrow seemed to leap out at him from every window, and despite putting on a brave face Charles had to wonder if he should refrain from letting the hall boy go to collect firewood tomorrow morning- or the scullery maids with the coal-…. who was to say that fiend wouldn’t be outside waiting? The police hadn’t caught him yet. 

What if he was waiting in the woods till the attic lights went out? Then he’d come sneaking in and- 

“Drink.” Elsie urged him. Charles did as she commanded, bringing the margaux to his lips and indulging as deeply as he dared. The hour was nearing nine. 

For a long while he simply sat and drank… and thought. 

Thought about Thomas Barrow. 

He could still see the very first time Thomas Barrow had walked into Downton. He’d been young, fifteen years old, and determined to wrangle the junior footman position with a gleaming reference from a one Edgar Burland of Whittman House in London. Charles had made enquiries and found them superb- Thomas was apparently the star pupil of Mr. Burland, sure to be a good asset to any house he applied for. 

_“The boy’s made of smart stuff.”_ Mr. Burland had boasted with pride in his reference letter, _“Put him to work and he’ll do the rest. He has a talent in the dining room and a knack for polishing silver.”_

Charles had taken him on, but had been quick to notice something was off. 

The internal male staff at the time had included two other footmen named George and Frederick, and the prior valet for Lord Grantham, a Mr. Richard Waltman. As junior footman, Charles had expected for Thomas to latch onto George and Frederick, for them to be chummy and rub elbows well. Instead, Thomas had flat out avoided them save for when they absolutely had to interact… and had instead latched onto Anna. 

At first, Carson had thought Thomas was flirting, and had almost made to reprimand him, until he’d noticed that Thomas wasn’t flirting at all but was instead taking comfort in her. Indeed, Thomas was getting on well with all the women on staff, from Mrs. Patmore (who’d suddenly taken to making Thomas’ favorite salted cod cakes all the time) to Elsie (who had never liked first footman Frederick anyways). The downfall came when Thomas had proven himself to be a worthy adversary to one, Sarah O’Brien, helping her with crosswords over tea time and asking her such questions as _‘how are you today’_ and _‘I can carry that for you if you like’_. 

He’d not known to avoid her, no one had bothered to warn him.   
O’Brien had set her claws into Thomas like a cat into a tasty vole. The rest had been history. 

Charles had admittedly grown to utterly despise Thomas, given his awful attitude and poor work ethic. But had he really ever had either? 

Yes- yes he had. Thomas had the worst attitude in the history of attitudes included Guy Fawkes’ attitudes towards English Parliament. 

Yet Charles could admit in the sanctuary of his own head where no one could hear his thoughts that Thomas’ work ethic had never truly been all that poor. He’d worked very hard, in fact, had all but pushed Frederick and George out of the way in his pursuit of the position of First Footman. He’d garnered it easily (because everyone had disliked Frederick and George had left for the Dowager house). When William had come along, Thomas had turned oddly… sour. Charles hadn’t been able to understand why. 

But now, with Mr. Barrow’s attitude towards his son clear, Charles was starting to get a better picture: Thomas had been jealous of William’s relationship with Mr. Mason. 

He’d never asked for help from Charles, but perhaps that was because he’d thought help was unavailable to him. Perhaps Thomas had been under the impression that because of his… persuasions… Charles would not assist him in his career. 

And while the idea was incredibly tempting, it also went directly against Charles conscience. 

He supposed, when all was said and done, perhaps he’d gotten a little out of hand with his animosity towards Thomas Barrow. 

“…I thought…” Charles’ lips were heavy from the wine, making him feel oddly verbal in regards to his feelings. Then again, he was talking to Elsie- he wanted her to know every thought that passed through his head. 

“For so many years, I thought he was foul.” Charles mumbled, Elsie watched him calmly from across the table, her own glass of margaux untouched. “I still do to be fair-“ he added quickly, “The idea of two men-“ he shuddered. 

“Charlie-“ Elsie reached across the table and gently took one his hands in her own. It was only then that Charles realized his hands were shaking- why he could not say. “He’s hardly in love with _you_ , but I think it should be obvious now why Thomas has acted the way he has.” 

_“Run, da-“_ Thomas had bleated, a lost lamb if ever Charles had seen one. 

Mr. Barrow had looked upon his son’s destroyed hand with such horror- it were as if the whole of England was burning and he was holding the smoking match. 

“… I have never in my life been attacked in such a fashion.” Charles admitted, and Elsie nodded in sympathy. 

“Most men haven’t.” She agreed, taking a sip of her margaux. 

“… Thomas stuck out his hand- with such-“ but the word ‘courage’ stuck in Charles throat and would not come out. It rang, unsaid, in the air. 

Thomas had not thought twice, had not cared a whit for his own safety, had simply stuck out his hand to catch that blade- Charles could not help but wonder what would have happened had Thomas not caught that blade. 

He supposed he would be dead with a hatchet to the neck. 

“Life is full of surprises.” Elsie smiled gently at him. 

“I won’t pretend I’m thrilled with any of this but-“ Charles paused. 

“… It can’t go on.” Elsie whispered, finishing his unsaid thought. 

“No.” Charles agreed, shaking his head. 

No, it could not. 

He’d allowed himself to imagine a world where Thomas was normal. Where Thomas could court and marry Daisy- could live as peacefully as her as Mr. Bates lived with Mrs. Bates… but in that fantasy, he’d forgotten who Thomas truly was, and what obviously made Thomas happy. 

Charles would not pretend to understand it, but after witnessing how lovingly James and Thomas had stuck to one another during the trial of Mr. Barrow and his axe… it was obvious who was for Thomas. Who Thomas loved. 

No, it could not go on. 

“He loves him, Charlie.” Elsie summed up, shrugging her shoulders a little. Her tone as incredibly soft, “Thomas loves James, James loves Thomas. That’s it. It’s done.” 

She didn’t sound happy about it, but she wasn’t going to fight it. 

“But how could he do this… to…” Charles flustered, thinking of all that Thomas had stood to gain with Daisy had he only just behaved like a decent human being for once in his-

_“Run, da-“_ Charles heard Thomas’ voice echo in his head, stopping his snide thought dead. He blanched, expression slackening. 

“He didn’t do this to you or to anyone.” Elsie argued, gently. “They’re in love, it happens.” 

“… I thought Daisy could cure him.” Charles admitted, feeling a fool. 

“Well she obviously can’t.” Elsie sighed. “And as much as I wished Thomas could marry a woman and live a normal life… it’s not the life he wants. We have to respect that.”   
Charles leaned back in his chair, hand slipping a little from Elsie’s- she squeezed his fingers, causing him to re-open his weary eyes so that they could gaze at one another intimately. 

“Charlie,” Elsie urged, “Thomas Barrow is one of the most stubborn, hard-boiled men I have ever met. In my life.” She added with a soft laugh, “And that’s saying quite a lot with Tom Branson walking above our heads.” 

Charles smiled in spite of himself, and flushed as Elsie’s hand slipped from his own to reach up and gently touch at the corners of his face. Her fingers made his skin flush, and his eyes widened instinctively as Elsie’s smile made feelings of love explode in his chest. It was like he’d swallowed a box of fireworks. 

“If his… preferences… were curable, if it were truly an illness… Thomas would have found a way. He wouldn’t have given up. you know that.” She whispered. 

And Charles knew it was the truth. 

Thomas had gone to such extensive pains, trying desperately for normalcy. If it had been achievable, he would have achieved it. But that still left the question of Thomas’ tastes- preferences aside even Thomas’ tastes were poor. 

James Kent, the laggard. 

“But why James Kent?” Charles crinkled his nose with disgust, “What is the appeal? Surely he can do better-“ 

At this, Elsie laughed outright, tittering sweetly as she pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep her voice down. Her laugh was such a sweet thing that Charles could not help but smile, and did so as she looked at him utterly amazed. 

“Charles-“ She coughed through a laugh, “Are you- are you saying that you don’t approve of James for Thomas?” 

“I wouldn’t approve of James for anyone!” Charles corrected. 

Elsie took his hands in her own again, and as she smiled up at him with wonder and devotion, Charles could not help but feel how absolutely lucky he was. To have someone so delightful and perfect love him. To have found her in the chaos of the world. 

“I love you.” She declared, and Charles beamed with pride. “How I love you.” 

She squeezed his fingers, her eyes lighting up with inspiration, “Let’s go to Thomas, yes? Let’s go and iron this all out.” 

“Right now?” Charles flustered, hand slipping from Elsie’s to check his pocket watch. It was nearing nine thirty. 

“Why not?” She urged. 

“But if we both go who will look after the house?” Charles demanded. 

“I’ll stay-“ Elsie decided on the spot, “You go. He needs to talk to you. You need to talk to him.” 

“Why?” Charles asked the obvious question, almost fearing for the answer as Elsie fixed him with a pointed stare. 

“Charlie.” She murmured, the tiniest bit of stern command slipping into her voice. “His father attacked him with an axe for being in love with James. You need to tell him it’s okay. Just this once, he’ll hardly ask you to say it twice.” 

“But-“ Charles felt almost like one of the children under her beady stare, “But I don’t approve-!” And frankly he didn’t. 

“You don’t _have_ to.” Elsie urged him. “This is not about starting a revolution. This is about thanking a man who took an axe for you… and there is great honor in what you do for Thomas. You are a kind man. You don’t have to _approve_ to be _kind_.” 

Charles considered the wisdom of her words, and the turn that Thomas was owed.   
He didn’t approve. But… 

“I’m glad that you are with me.” He admitted softly. 

“I’ll always be with you.” she agreed sweetly, and the implication was so wondrous that Charles could not help but smile, “But you better go now before visiting hours are out.” 

She was right. 

Charles squeezed her hand one last time before rising and taking to his hat and coat. She helped him with the buttons, reaching up on tip toe to gently kiss him upon the cheek, and where her lips touched his skin the heat of life coursed through his veins. 

Yet as she offered him his walking stick, Charles found himself feeling the slightest bit nervous of the conversation was yet to come. 

“Don’t tell anyone else that I’ve given him my…” Charles paused, “Whatever I’m giving. The others will never live it down.” 

“Oh heavens,” Elsie simpered sweetly, “I’ll take it to my grave.” 

And he hoped it was a grave they would share. 

~*~

The past six hours had become an absolute blur. 

Upon being loaded into Dr. Clarkson’s ‘roaming caravan’ of sorts, Thomas was taken to Downton Hospital post haste and prepped for outpatient surgery. By the time that Thomas had been finally underneath the knife, he’d lost so much blood that Clarkson didn’t want to waste time with anesthetic. Alert and able to feel every inch of the needle and scalpel being pushed into his flesh, Thomas sat in quiet surrender through the entire operation as a nurse sponged his forehead and mentioned multiple times how very ‘brave’ he was. Clarkson, for his part, said nothing as he first cleaned the hatchet cut with a few flicks of the scalpel and then sowed the entire affair shut with surgical thread. After that he bathed and bandaged Thomas’ hand, urging him to clench and unclench his wounded hand several times until he was content with how Thomas’ four remaining fingers moved- 

Well, technically three. Thomas had read somewhere that the thumb wasn’t supposed to be considered a finger. Didn’t this mean that most men had only eight fingers and Thomas now had seven total? 

He needed a hobby. 

He threw up several times during the process, which Clarkson assured him was normal as the nurse continued to sponge his forehead with a cold cloth and offered him a waste basket for the rest. Some dribble about the body’s response to trauma and surgery which Thomas supposed would have made more sense if he wasn’t so damn curfuffled about the day’s events. He’d woken up that morning with ten fingers- or was it eight- and now he only had nine- or was it seven. 

And now he’d never see Margret, Danny, or Tommy again. 

The sun set, and Thomas’ operation was concluded as a success by both nurse and doctor alike. Thomas was offered a fresh pair of blue striped pajamas and laid into a soft (if slightly threadbare) bed in the back corner of the hospital surrounded by privacy screens. Clarkson had ordered for Thomas to be hooked up to both a saline drip and a blood transfusion- the rest had involved a new nurse with a sweet smile and a sharp needle. Thomas had been a subdued patient, doing as she asked when she urged him to clench his fist several times and pump up his flat veins. As she’d stuck him twice, she’d plumped his pillows and offered him a clean waste basket while smoothing out a warm blanket over his legs. He’d said nothing the whole time, feeling rather in shock as she finally let him be. 

Thomas had laid there for hours, the room around him growing darker and darker until it was completely silent and pitch black save for the twinkling lights that hung in brass lamps high upon the walls. Every so often through the screen, Thomas would catch the shadow of a nurse walking past- would hear her heels click upon the stone floors… would hear Dr. Clarkson’s voice, muffled by a door or a wall. 

At some point, Thomas’ bottom lip started quivering. He attempted to make his jaw clench tight- attempted to gain some kind of control over his facial movements- but found it a wasted effort. 

His thoughts were dancing in a dizzying pattern, offering him no relief and no answers as he considered all that had occurred in the past week alone. His mother’s death, his initial meeting with Danny and Tommy, his first physical intimacy with Jimmy and now his father’s final blow. 

He found his thoughts drifting back and forth. First to his childhood and then to his time at Downton. At times glimpses of his life with his father would come back to hit him. Not all of them would be unpleasant. 

Most of his earliest memories involved his mother, but some involved his father. Thomas could recall with distinct clarity how his father had had a work table upstairs at one point that Thomas would try to grab onto, leg wise. He wanted to know what was on top, what so captivated his father’s attention. His father had sat him on his lap, and with one arm crooked around Thomas’ chubby tummy had continued to work on a clock as Thomas had pick up all sorts of nuts and bolts to separate them into piles. 

Thomas could recall seeing his father asleep on the couch, snoring softly with his arm over his eyes to block out the light of their side lamp where his mother sat embroidering a pillowcase. His chest had risen and fallen slowly, large and barrel shaped. 

Thomas could not help but remember how bloodless his father’s face had looked.   
How frightened he’d seemed when he’d realized what the axe had done.   
Like he hadn’t meant for any of it to happen… any of it at all. 

Clarkson returned, bringing with him something foul for him to drink that tasted and looked like tar. It made him weak in the head, like the lights were dancing inside of his skull instead of hanging in the brass lamps upon the wall, and as Clarkson folded and unfolded his bandaged hand Thomas didn’t feel the pain that he knew ought to be there. Clarkson seemed satisfied for the most part, nodding to himself as he bid Thomas to flex his fingers or curl them into a fist. 

“The good news is that your hand was already wounded and frankly you were never going to use that pinky again.” Clarkson murmured. 

Thomas blinked stupidly, wondering at him. 

He’d killed Edward.   
Broke his brittle heart in two.   
And that is very bad… (had he read that in a poem somewhere? Thomas couldn’t remember)

He’d known though- he’d known. He’d known far back, months ago, how all of this would turn out. Maybe that was why he didn’t look surprised now as he cast a glance every so often at Thomas and bid him to clench his fist again. 

“You’re lucky, Thomas.” Clarkson said. “Very lucky.” 

Thomas only blinked again, his mouth didn’t want to cooperate for some reason. 

Their odd intimacy was interrupted by a nurse with a tired jaunt in her step and bags underneath her pretty brown eyes. She bid Clarkson follow her out, and Clarkson abandoned his bedside to exit into the hall. Thomas felt his bottom lip quiver again, and reached up with hsi bandaged hand to rub bitterly at his face. The starched cloth felt stiff against his raw skin. 

He had read that poem, now he could remember. Dorothy Parker, Enough Rope. 

Dr. Clarkson was back. He wasn’t alone. 

Thomas felt an icy feeling spread in the pit of his stomach as he realized Dr. Clarkson’s companion to be none other than Mr. Carson in his black bowler hat and traveling coat. He looked disgruntled, a common expression worn but somehow made only worse when he directed it at Thomas. Taking off his hat, Carson drummed his fingers idly upon the felt collar of his bowler as Dr. Clarkson drew back the privacy screen of Thomas’ beside and bid them a silent adieu with a bow of his head. 

Clarkson left the wing, the nurse going with him after a moment, and Carson drew up a rickety chair from an empty bedside to perch his bowler upon his knee. 

Thomas realized he was staring and quickly looked away. God only knows what Carson thought of him now… or why he was even here. 

Probably to tell Thomas he was fired. 

“… Mr. Carson.” Thomas croaked, his eyes lowering to his bandaged hand which sat thick and heavy upon his lap, “I wish I knew what to say.” 

Carson held up a hand, oddly patient with him in that moment. It struck Thomas as being highly out of character but he said nothing, nervous of what would come next. Carson reached up to smooth his thinning hair, very tired after such an insane day. Thomas wondered what state of chaos the abbey was in; what mess he’d left in his wake. 

“You have done nothing to warrant an apology, Thomas. Which is precisely why I wanted to speak with you.” Carson had a peculiar look upon his face as if he was only admitting all this under begrudging oath. Thomas didn’t know whether to believe him or not. 

“… I don’t understand.” Thomas admitted. He was too tired for games. 

Carson said nothing for a moment, drumming his meaty fingers upon this bowler hat again as he searched himself for the appropriate words. When he finally spoke, it was with an intimate grumble that only graced the weight of a feather. 

“Your father was a vile, shocking, heartless man.” Carson murmured. 

Thomas sniffed, recalling how his mother had chastised him under her caged crinoline one freezing October night. 

“Some would say.” Thomas mumbled back, looking once more to his bandaged hand to avoid Carson’s penetrating gaze. 

Carson stretched out a little upon the chair, causing the old wood to squeak underneath his enormous girth as he folded his arms over his chest. 

“Mrs. Hughes agrees with me, which I’m sure will not surprise you.” Carson grumbled. Thomas had to admit that he was right, “But I found myself observing his behavior, reflecting on my own person, and wondering at the connection between the two. Mrs. Hughes claims it is my lack of self-knowledge.” And at this Carson sounded very irritated indeed. 

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Carson.” Thomas mumbled. He was in no way shape or form ready for a tête-á-tête with Carson after such a grueling day. 

It was then that Carson turned to look at Thomas squarely in the face with a ponderous expression Thomas had never seen before only to say, with benign acceptance, “It does matter… because you matter to me.” 

A second ticked by in absolute silence as Thomas regarded Carson for a stranger. Carson, who from the very minute of their first meeting had initially disliked him. Carson, who had always preferred William, Alfred, or Moseley over Thomas for their supposed work ethic and team morale. Carson, who had shouted Thomas down in a grotesque rage to call him foul and unnatural upon Thomas’ forced public admission of homosexuality. 

Carson, who had so desired for Thomas to take up with Daisy.   
Carson, who had so detested Jimmy’s return.   
Carson, who had frightened him into a second round of shock therapy. 

Carson, who had publicly forsworn to defend Thomas against the police. 

“Thomas,” Carson gave an enormous sigh, once again taking on that tone of begrudging reluctance, “You have gone through a horrific time, attempting to change something that cannot be changed. You have undergone a trauma and it has confused you.” 

Thomas blinked, feeling once again like the stars behind the brass lamps were dancing in his brain. What if this wasn’t real at all- was instead some vivid hallucination brought on by exhaustion and bitter emptiness? 

“You are an incredibly intelligent man, Thomas.” Carson admitted, and Thomas nearly flagged the entire affair as a dream at this point for Carson had never once openly concluded him to be smart until Carson said, “Your intelligence can be an asset as well as your undoing. You have over thought this matter, and forgotten yourself. Your choice was a simple one, and you chose the wrong thing. Between a truth and a lie, you chose a lie. A comforting lie, but still a lie.” 

He spoke in that oddly paternal tone which had so often mocked and chastised Thomas in his earlier years. Before now it had never failed to make Thomas’ blood boil, but in that moment as he sat numb and stupid upon Clarkson’s only occupied bed, Thomas felt more like a child than ever in need of guidance. 

And so he muttered, “A lie-?” aloud. Carson nodded solemnly. 

“A lie.” Carson repeated, shifting his arms a little from where they were folded upon his rotund belly. “You have lied about many things in the past, Thomas. In your youth, you made many mistakes… as do we all.” Carson pursed his lips into a thin white line before continuing, “But you have never lied to yourself. Not until now, and I cannot allow this lie to go on any further. Not when it is harming you and affecting your work.” 

Thomas stared. 

Carson weighed his words carefully, eyes locked upon Thomas’ own. His expression softened like butter left out in the open too long; Carson’s eyebrows relaxed, his gaze turning from stern to oddly… gentle. For the very first time- gentle. 

“… It can’t work, Thomas.” Carson murmured, and for a second Thomas’ brain spiraled with terrifying outcomes of sackings and ruining until Carson said, “ You know it can’t work. You know it can never work, because…” Carson let out another begrudging sigh, “Because you are what you are, and you cannot change. No shock, no drug, no lovely woman can make you change, and even if it could-“ 

Carson ground down on this jaw, closing his eyes momentarily to resign himself as if to a failure. He didn’t seem mad, or even slightly annoyed- simply curmudgeonly as he opened his eyes again to fix Thomas with a calm stare. 

Thomas waited with baited breath, his heart pounding in his ears. 

“And even if it could, you should not change.” Carson said. 

The tiniest shuddering breath escaped Thomas’ lips, hitching in the air between them.   
Carson blinked, his gaze softening, and continued on. 

“You shouldn’t change when you are perfectly acceptable the way you are.” 

Thomas waited for Carson to proclaim it all a joke, for Carson to sneer and say, _“or so you’d think-“_ but instead Carson simply sat on his rickety chair and quietly changed Thomas’ entire world without so much as twitching a bushy eyebrow. 

“…I..” Thomas tried for something, anything to sum up his gratitude, his awe. Nothing came as his throat began to clench at the thought that for the first time in his life, a man in a paternal role had actually showed some come of acceptance towards him- some meagre amount of affection and praise. 

And it was in that moment, feeling as foolish as a four year old with their hand caught in the cookie jar, that Thomas realized just how much he’d needed for someone to show fatherly interest in him. For someone he trusted and even admired to show him guidance and respect. 

“I uh…” Thomas stuttered, eyes burning madly. 

He could no easier hold in the sobs that escaped his lips than he could have separated with his spinal column. Like a child, like a fool, he broke down and wept upon that dingy little hospital cot- in plain view of Carson and the entire world as the pain in his heart swelled and finally burst. So distraught was he at finally gaining the one thing he’d so sorely lacked for all his life that when he heard wood scraping against stone, Thomas’ first thought was that Carson was now going to leave- no doubt embarrassed by his emotional display. 

When Carson instead stood to reach out and take Thomas into his arms, Thomas felt the final wall between the pair of them shatter with an earth quaking force. 

Carson was warm, solid and real- a safe barrier between himself and the man that had so abused and betrayed him in his childhood. The raging alcoholic that wielded an axe vanished behind the rotund belly and bushy eyebrows of a man who’d been every bit as angering and damning- but never violent nor cruel. Carson was a fair man, annoying indulgent on those that he deemed ‘innocent’; Thomas had never been among that lot and so he’d never known the full strength of having someone as powerful and protective as Carson on his side. John was protective as well, but John had a dangerous streak that Carson lacked. So law abiding and respectful was Carson that Thomas felt almost as if he was being embraced in that moment by society as a whole. As if, for the first time, the barriers that had always damned him were now finally doing their proper job of protecting him from the elements of the wild that had scarred him. 

“You have done well, Thomas.” Carson praised, his tone slightly gruff. Thomas clung to the smidge of affection he heard there, his tears wetting Carson’s black vest as he pressed his face into Carson’s enormous belly. He wanted to smother himself there, to hide as he might have hid in childhood under his father’s work desk snuggling into his traveling coat with a book and an apple. He wanted to be cared for, to be protected, to be understood. Carson offered him as much as he could, as much as was respectable, and for his generosity Thomas felt an unnerving sense of loyalty to the man in that moment. 

“You have done well, and for all our past irritations I am proud of you and find you to be as you ought to be.” 

Carson could have brought him no greater pain if he’d hacked off another finger with an axe. Thomas bit out sob after sob into Carson’s waist coat, his shoulders heavy with warmth as Carson draped his arm across Thomas’ shaking back. 

“We will tread the garden path together, Thomas.” Carson assured him, “And we will make it back to safer shores.” 

Whether it was the masochist in Thomas or the fact that he couldn’t believe Carson’s incredible change of heart to be honest, Thomas’s fears bubbled up so that he whispered, “But… but you don’t even like Jimmy.” into Carson’s thick waistcoat. 

“Certainly not!” Carson said in such a huffy voice that Thomas feared the worst until he said, “ but I’m not the one involved with him. For which I thank the Lord.” 

Thomas almost laughed. 

It was foolish to cry into Carson’s waist coat, and hardly becoming of a grown man’s behavior; Thomas straightened up as best he could and wiped at his eyes with both his bandaged and normal hand. Carson, for whatever reason, did not remove his hand from Thomas’ back as Thomas recomposed himself. By the time that his face was dry, the room was silent save to the simple sound of Carson breathing and the tick of a clock on the wall nearby. 

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” Thomas had never meant the words more. He looked up into Carson’s face, and was utterly struck by the simple kindness he saw there in his bagged brown eyes. Never before had Carson looked on his so fondly, as if Thomas were a servant in whom he took pride and welcomed into the fold. It moved him. 

“For everything, thank you.” Thomas said. Carson nodded, quiet in his gesture of unbelievable kindness. 

“You have much to set right, Thomas.” Carson said, and he knew it was true, “But none of it can be done tonight. Sleep-“ Carson advised, “that’s what’s needed now… and tomorrow you can return home and rest in your own bed, and explain to Daisy everything that has come to light.” 

Thomas nodded, and as Carson withdrew his hand from Thomas’ back, Thomas felt himself being drug down onto his soft pillow if only by the weight of Carson’s word and Clarkson’s weird tar drink. Carson had perched his bowler hat upon the seat of his chair when he’d stood, and now retrieved it to flatten the felt rim with care. He still did not make to fully go as Thomas looked up at him amazed. 

For a moment they simply stared at one another, taking each other in in a way that they never had before. 

And then- 

“… Do you honestly dislike me?” Thomas asked, his heart a fragile thing between them on his sleeve. Carson reached into his waist coat, checked pocket watch, then gave him a small smile to say: 

“No.” Carson replied. And that was all. 

Thomas let out the tiniest breath, soothed at long last. 

“Bed, Thomas.” Carson agreed, “You have been through an exhausting day and-“ 

But whatever was about to come next was cut short as the sound of a scuffle out in the hallway echoed into the hospital wing: 

_“You let him in there and you won’t let me in there?!”_ Came the beautiful voice of an irate Jimmy Kent. _“What- do you have scrambled eggs for brains?! Let me in there!”_

_“Mr. Kent-!”_ Dr. Clarkson thundered back- 

_“I’ll show you Mr. Kent, let me in!”_ there was a scrabble at the door, only for it to be shoved open to show Jimmy in a state of slight disarray as he tried to detangle himself from Clarkson who was attempting to pull him back into the hall. Jimmy jerked his hand out of Clarkson’s grip, seething, “Oi, oi, oi! What’s this, quit getting handsy!” 

Carson gave Thomas a look of absolute disgust that neither Jimmy nor Clarkson could see. 

Thomas laughed softly as Carson muttered, “Could you not do better, Thomas? Could you not find someone so disagreeable and…” Carson waved a hand in an errant flipping manor to show just how little he thought of Jimmy’s flagrant behavior in lieu of a sick-bed. 

“I’m afraid not.” Thomas declared, and Carson’s glare softened a little as Thomas said, “Our hearts are old friends.” 

“Yes, well-“ Carson seethed, tutting with his tongue and teeth, “There’s always something.” though he clearly didn’t agree. 

Carson glared a little at Jimmy’s approach. Jimmy was as wary and hot footed as ever, looking from Thomas blotchy and inflamed face to Carson’s bitter expression and coming up with a bad interaction. Thomas wondered what Jimmy would say when he knew. 

“Mr. Carson.” Jimmy began, a finger in the air as if to denounce everyone and everything, but then Carson raised a hand to silence him and donned his black bowler hat once more. 

“Recover quickly, Mr. Barrow.” Carson said, his voice back to it’s normal irritating drawl, “I will be needing your assistance promptly.” 

And with that, he left. Jimmy watched him go the entire time, stiff and on edge until Carson was out the door and Clarkson was left standing in the middle of the hospital wing, deflated like an old wind sock. 

“Visiting hours are over, Mr. Kent.” Dr. Clarkson said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

Jimmy took Thomas’ bedside chair in hand, pulling it to him to plonk on down with a saucy and haughty expression that seemed to set Dr. Clarkson’s teeth on edge. Unmoving for even the strictest law of patient care, Jimmy crossed his arms jauntily over his chest and fixed Clarkson with a smug expression that seemed to say _“Your move, Doctor.”_

The day had been long and was not over yet. Clarkson, it seemed, was a man who picked his battles wisely. With a hospital to run and much still to do before the promise of bed, he did not seem eager to start a fight with Jimmy if he could avoid it. Dr. Clarkson cracked his stiff neck, rubbing at the back of it with a hand to wearily proclaim, “I’ll allow you half an hour, but after that you’ll have to leave. And keep your voice down, there are other patients besides Mr. Barrow in this hospital.” 

Jimmy looked left and right at the empty hospital wing, and raised an eyebrow. Clarkson did not even bother to explain himself, stepping out and gently closing the door behind him so that the pair of them were left in tense silence. 

Finally alone at last, Jimmy abandoned all pretenses of the hospital chair (which he leapt out of) to quickly clamber onto Thomas’ bed so that he could embrace him fully about the neck. The smell of peppermint and blond curls filled Thomas’ nose as he closed his eyes and buried his face in Jimmy’s wonderful hair. 

Jimmy pulled back far too soon, petrified as he took Thomas’ bandaged hand into his own and kissed the bruised knuckles that glimpsed through hospital tape. 

“Let me see- let me see-“ Jimmy mumbled, turning Thomas’ battered hand this way and that like a proper little nurse. Thomas felt truly cared for as Jimmy kissed his hand all over. 

“It’s okay.” Jimmy assured him in a soothing voice, “It’s okay, we’ll get through this. It’s not bad. It’s just a finger.” He looked up with the sweetest smile, and Thomas felt his eyes begin to burn again for the fierce devotion that sprang in his chest as Jimmy said, “It’s not like you’ve lost your legs or your eyes-“ 

Whether it was the scenery of the hospital wing or the mentioning of blindness, Thomas suddenly started thinking about Edward Courtenay and just how close he himself had come to suicide in his desperation to court Daisy Mason and play the ‘normal’ man. His face began to screw up but Jimmy suddenly began to press kisses onto his cheeks, nose, and brow- peppering him with love till the emotion passed. 

“It’s okay. We can handle this. I’ll help you!” Jimmy assured him, “I’ll help you.” 

Thomas took his one good hand and wrapped his arm tight around Jimmy’s back, holding him close as Jimmy continue do sooth and stroke his bandaged hand. 

“What did Carson say. Was he a prig? You can tell me.” Jimmy assured him. Thomas sat up straight, sniffing as Jimmy took Thomas’ face in both his hands and stroked beneath his eyes with his thumbs. Thomas felt wetness spreading with Jimmy’s swipes. 

“… He said I shouldn’t change.” Thomas whispered. Jimmy was thunderstruck, “He said that I was perfectly…” but Thomas’ throat clenched tight at the memory and he had to start again, “Perfectly acceptable the way I am.” 

And so raw, so grated, so exhausted was he, that in that moment all he could do was lay his head upon Jimmy’s shoulder and weep. 

Jimmy buried one hand in Thomas’ hair to use the other upon his back, stroking up and down soothingly as he mumbled, “Well. You could knock me out with a feather” at long last. 

~*~

The whole day, Jimmy had been climbing up a wall trying to get to Downton Hospital. Both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had warned him off of it, demanding that he at least allow Thomas to undergo surgery first. When Dr. Clarkson had called with the update that Thomas was out of surgery and recovering slowly, he’d asked that all visitors wait for several hours later until Thomas had regained his senses. Something about a blood transfusion and having to undergo the surgery without anesthetic. 

Jimmy had sequestered himself in the boot room, in such a vicious and hateful mood that soon everyone in the house was avoiding him lest they received an undeserved scolding. 

A tension had fallen upon the house, and John had found himself at the thick of it as he whispered the tale in secret to Anna. The pair of them had sat huddled in a corner of the servant’s hall, respective sewing boxes making do as barriers for the questioning. Yet as John had regaled the whole tale to Anna, Anna had grown incredibly pale to quietly rise up from her chair and seek out one Phyllis Baxter. 

In hindsight, John supposed she should have been the first to know. 

Upon being told, Baxter had nearly fainted from the shock of it all. Moseley, knight in shining armor that he was, had offered her a chair and a cup of tea in greatest sympathy, and so the four of them had talked through out the rest of the day until Moseley had been called upstairs with Andy to serve dinner. By the time that Andy had come back down, he’d been just as grim faced as his companions and clearly in the know. 

And so it was that five sets of eyes watched the kitchens warily and waited for the final brick to fall. 

The servant’s dinner that night was a tense affair, with both Jimmy’s and Thomas’ chairs empty. Clearly Jimmy wasn’t coming out from the boot room (though Baxter had attempted to fetch him twice). As Daisy had walked around the table, glum and in a daze, she’d noticed the empty chairs and promptly become gray faced. No one had made to correct her assumptions as she’d set down dinner and quietly walked out of the hall. 

After dinner, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had retreated into her office to share a much needed bottle of margaux. The boot room door had remained closed as John and Anna sat sewing silently at the servant’s table while Baxter and Moseley sat by the fire in somber reflection. John was on the verge of asking Baxter if she wanted something stronger than tea when Mr. Carson had walked out of Mrs. Hughes’ office in both traveling coat and hat. 

Baxter had seen him go, and without another word had risen out of her chair to warn Jimmy off. Jimmy had bolted from the boot room, vanishing down the hallway and out the back door after Mr. Carson before anyone could stop him. He’d nearly bowled Baxter over, who’d had to flatten herself against the wall to keep from getting trampled. 

John, Anna, Andy, Moseley, and Baxter had kept quiet company in the servant’s hall, and as the hour had slipped to ten John set his sewing box aside to look down at his hands. 

He regarded his fingers, all ten of them, and wondered at the pain of having one hacked off. Anna seemed to have caught him staring, and as he glanced up he found her waiting with a small smile. 

“He’ll be alright.” Anna urged, gently. “It’s not like he lost a leg.” 

“You’re right.” John agreed. In hindsight, a pinky finger was the easiest thing to lose. It wasn’t like it had been one of his eyes or anything. 

“I can’t believe he’d do it.” Baxter whispered from her chair. “Mr. Barrow was always so kind-“ 

“Was he?” John asked, slightly sour as he remembered how vulgar and abusive Thomas’ father had been. “Looked to me like he was a cad.” 

“He’s an alcoholic.” Was all Baxter could think to say. “He’s not cruel when he’s sober.” 

“Then he’s going to have one hell of a wake up call tomorrow morning.” Andy spoke up, “Imagine coming to and realizing you’d cut off one of your children’s fingers.” 

“What?” 

The voice of Daisy brought each of them out of their reverie, and a sudden guilty silence fell upon the five of them as Daisy stood in the doorway of the servant’s hall with a laden tea tray in hand. Exhausted and aproned, she looked to each of them in turn for an answer as her eyes finally fell on Andy in the corner who looked the most guilty of them all. 

“What’s going on?” Daisy asked, nervous. “Why is everyone so quiet?” 

Andy’s eyes flickered to John, who remained resolutely silent- to Moseley who refused to answer as he kept Baxter company by the fire in quiet comfort. 

“… Earlier today, Thomas’ father showed up in the courtyard-“ Andy began. Anna made a noise, trying to cut him off, but Andy just kept talking as Daisy grew as pale as her apron, “He took a hatchet from the woodpile and chopped off one of Thomas’ fingers. Thomas is at the local hospital right now, his whole hand is cut to hell right across-” 

But as Andy raised up a hand to show Daisy just where Thomas had been cut, Daisy’s tray slipped right from her hands to crash with an ungodly clamor onto the floor. Two teacups shattered completely, the kettle tipping over onto its side to spill steaming hot water everywhere as biscuits rolled like run away wheels. 

John rubbed at his brow, now realizing why Anna had been so eager for Andy to shut up. She’d wanted Daisy to put down the tray first. 

Daisy took one step back, then another, comprehension and horror dawning upon her gray face as she snatched her apron off from around her neck to let it flutter to the floor like a ghost. 

“Daisy-“ Andy rose from his chair, hand out, but Daisy wasn’t listening. She’d already turned, heels smacking upon the stone floor as she ran flat out for the back door. Andy bolted, chair knocking aside as he skittered around the edge of the servant’s table after her. 

The back door banged once, then twice, and silence once more fell over the house as Anna let out a long drawn out sigh to look down at the mess upon the floor. So exhausted were they all that no one made to clean it immediately, each staring at the pile of biscuits and spilt water with the unasked question of ‘whose’ going to bite the bullet and fetch the mop’. 

But then, like clockwork, Mrs. Hughes appeared in the door to the servant’s hall and regarded the mess upon the floor with pursed lips. 

“Well then.” She murmured. She turned, fetched one of the hall boys, and said no more, vanishing back into her office as two of the hall boys appeared from the kitchen with a mop and bucket. 

John checked his pocket watch. It was ten thirty.   
Visiting hours were over. 

~*~

Eventually Thomas had stopped being a soppy ninny and Jimmy had clambered up fully onto Thomas’ bed to lay beside him with Thomas’ head on his shoulder. Quiet and content, Thomas had fallen in and out of slumber as Jimmy stroked his hair and hummed Thomas’ berceuse underneath his breath. 

Despite Clarkson’s assurance that he would be back in half an hour to take Jimmy away, Clarkson never came back and Thomas allowed himself to hope that he might even let Jimmy spend the night. That he’d simply forget Jimmy was comforting Thomas in the hospital wing or maybe just flat out allow him to stay by Thomas’ bedside as he’d allow any spouse to comfort the other. Either way, Thomas would never know as Jimmy’s stroking fingers lulled him to sleep. 

“What’s a finger or two… eh?” Jimmy mumbled into Thomas’ scalp. 

“Least he didn’t chop my whole hand off.” Thomas whispered, eyes closed as he spoke into Jimmy’s moistened collarbone. Jimmy had undone his tie, shedding his jacket, shoes, and newscap so that he was practically indecent as he shared Thomas’ thin wool blanket. 

“That’s the spirit.” Jimmy praised him. Thomas’ lips twitched into the tiniest smile. 

“I’m so sorry Jimmy-“ Thomas began, for greatest feelings of shame were beginning to stir up within him again as he dwindled on the ledge of sleep. 

“What’r’you sorry for, neh?” Jimmy warned, kissing Thomas’ brow as he spoke into his hair, “Dumb as a doorbell, you are. Think everything’s your own ruddy fault.” 

He pulled back to kiss Thomas upon the lips, and Thomas greedily sucked in Jimmy’s love as he opened his eyes to see Jimmy’s face practically nose to nose with his own. It was an incredibly beautiful sight, like being washed in the colors of a Monet till you were one with the painting. 

“Didn’t I tell you? You’ve got nothin’ ’t’apologize for.” Jimmy reminded him. Thomas blinked, feeling slow and dumb like a farm animal as he sighed and closed his eyes again. 

“Margret…” Thomas whispered the name. Jimmy cut him off. 

“We’ll find a way.” Jimmy assured him. Thomas allowed himself the luxury of believing him. It was an incredibly peaceful sensation, to believe he would see Margret again and all would be well. It nearly lulled him to sleep. “And don’t you apologize ever again. We’re fine and safe, what more could we want for?” 

Thomas felt a blackness sucking him under, but then a hammering of feet and a rattling at the door caused Jimmy to jerk in bed and Thomas was smacked back into the world of the living with a gasp as Jimmy leapt up to snatch hastily at a scalpel sitting out upon a tin tray full of tools. He held it out before himself, weapon at the ready, and for a moment terror overcame Thomas as he expected his father to burst through the hospital door ready for round two. 

Instead it was Daisy who hurtled through the other side, followed at a close pace by Andy who was sweating profusely and carrying both of their coats. They appeared to have run the entire way from Downton, both of them gasping for breath as Daisy clutched momentarily at her knees and drew deep shaking breathes. Jimmy all but fell back onto Thomas’ bed, clutching exasperatedly at his heart as he snarled, “Scared me t’death!” 

Thomas could not help but agree, his own heart pounding irrefutably as Daisy regained her breath and Andy wiped sweat from his brow. 

Jimmy set the scalpel back down onto the tin tray with a resounding smack. 

Daisy trembled as she approached, and Jimmy refused to leave his side or let Thomas drag his hand away as they huddled together with Thomas’ bandaged hand between them. The look upon her face was one of absolute horror, and made Thomas’ stomach twist nastily as she whispered, “Oh god, what have I done-?” 

Thomas’ mouth was slow to form words, still drugged from Clarkson’s tar drink and the edges of sleep “You weren’t to know, Daisy. This isn’t your fault-“ 

“It weren’t even to him-!” Daisy begged, her voice pained and on the edge of tears, “I wrote to Margret!” 

Thomas had suspected this from the moment that his father had drunkenly admitted to a letter soaked in tears- that Daisy might have pleaded to Margret for help after realizing that Jimmy and Thomas were in love and determined to remain together. Thomas had warned Jimmy off writing Margret but had never gotten the chance to impart the same hard-earned wisdom onto Daisy. It seemed now his pinky finger was the price. 

“He must have seen the letter was from the abbey and opened it.” Thomas summed up. Daisy’s face crumpled as he said, “He’s paranoid.” 

“Paranoid, there’s a word for it-“ Jimmy sneered loudly, “What did you go and write a letter to Margret for, couldn’t take a hint?” 

But at this, Daisy began to cry. 

It wasn’t that Thomas didn’t agree with Jimmy, or that he wasn’t slightly annoyed with Daisy himself now that he was down to nine fingers (or was it seven?), but his guilty conscience was such that even as Daisy wept he tried to stop her. 

“Daisy-“ Thomas beseeched, but Jimmy cut across him. 

“No, don’t you go making excuses for her.” Jimmy warned, his expression as hard as ever while he continued to squeeze Thomas’ one good hand, “You have just as much worth as everyone else, but people get away with doing you a wrong and it makes me blood boil! You deserve an apology made, not an apology given.” 

Thomas’ heart flooded with warmth at Jimmy’s words even as Daisy continued to cry. In a bold move that amazed even Thomas, Andy stepped up from behind Daisy to put both his enormous hands upon her petite shoulders so that she was suddenly protected from Jimmy’s fierce gaze by a determined cry of, “It’s not Daisy’s fault! None of this is Daisy’s fault!” 

“Tch-! As if!” Jimmy snapped. 

Andy looked ready to fire another bullet off at the mouth, but Thomas stopped him as he said, “Will you both give Daisy and me a few minutes alone?” 

Jimmy looked around, decidedly put out as his grip slackened in Thomas’ hand. Thomas squeezed Jimmy’s fingers assuredly, his gaze firm but warm. 

This nonsense had gone on long enough. 

“I-“ Jimmy seemed none too sure. 

“Just a few minutes, Jimmy. There’s something I need to say.” Thomas said. Jimmy seemed to understand, nodding and letting his fingers slip from Thomas’ one good hand. Despite the earlier harshness of his words, Jimmy did not brush past Daisy in rudeness as he stepped aside. He made for the door shoeless in relatively mature silence, and closed it swiftly behind him. Andy pulled up the chair for Daisy, helping her to sit down as she sniffed and sniveled into her hands. 

“I’ll be right outside, yeah?” Andy urged her, his tone gentle if not saccharine. Daisy took no notice, utterly miserable as Andy fixed Thomas with one last tense stare to head off. 

Thomas waited until Andy was fully out of earshot, the door close twice now, before sitting up a little better in bed and waiting for Daisy to quiet down. 

“I’m sorry.” Daisy wept into her hands, on the verge of begging as her words began to slur, “I’m so sorry, Thomas! I’m so sorry, what have I done?! I’m so sorry-“ 

“Daisy-“ Thomas cut her off, growing the slightest bit annoyed for how she just kept rambling. Daisy sniveled, blinking up abashedly from her soaking fingers; Thomas offered her a random clothe folded upon the tin tray so that she could wipe her eyes. God only knows what it was supposed to be used for. Daisy hurriedly dried her face, her eyes splotchy and red as she twisted her make-shift handkerchief feverishly in her lap. 

“You weren’t to know what he were like.” Thomas said. “This may have happened because of your letter, but it isn’t really your fault. I doubt you would have written had you known.” 

Or would she? Thomas couldn’t say. 

“Do you still love me?” Daisy asked, fearful for her supposed future. Thomas sighed, the weight of the world upon his exhausted shoulders as Daisy waited with baited breath for his answer. 

He thought his words through with care, praying his explanation would be as painless as possible in light of the days horrific events. 

“Daisy…” Thomas whispered, “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I love him and I’ll die without him. That’s all there is to it.” 

Daisy’s expression fell until a state of numb shock, and she slumped in her chair as she looked down at her two whole hands. For a moment there was only the tiniest hitch of her breathes as she processed the end of their wild relationship, then-

“Second best, again.” Daisy whispered, more to herself than anyone else. 

This rather irritated Thomas, and he cut her off with a firm if not annoyed, “No.” 

Daisy did not look up as he continued on, “Daisy, if I was a normal man that would be one thing. But I’m not a normal man, I’m not meant for it. Everyone is second best to Jimmy. To me there can be no one else. It’s not just you, it would be any other man too. I love him, him and no other. I’m sorry but that’s just the way it is.” 

Daisy looked up, her expression dull as she asked, “Did you ever love me, Thomas?” 

He could lie, he supposed.   
He could lie all he liked…. but where would that get him in the end? 

“… I tried.” Thomas admitted, and it was the fucking truth. Daisy closed her eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath. When she opened her eyes again, they were cold upon him. 

“Well.” Daisy whispered, “Bully for you.” 

She got up, the chair scraping a little upon the stone as she left her odd little handkerchief upon the seat. She did not even look at him as she turned to go, her steps slow and her gate exhausted as she stumbled to the door. Thomas considered calling her back, comforting her more, offering her some kind of hope… yet the honesty he’d given her in that moment was the only consolation he could offer. 

He _had_ tried to love her. The effort had nearly killed him. 

Daisy slipped out, not bothering to close the door behind her. Thomas listened intently, hearing the voices of both Andy and Jimmy though they were muffled and difficult to discern. After only a moment though, Jimmy returned alone to close the door. He looked slightly smug as he returned to Thomas’ beside. As he noticed the soiled linen in the seat of the chair he crinkled his nose in disgust and tipped the chair on its side by its spine so that the linen fell to the floor. He didn’t even bother with propriety, climbing right back in to Thomas’ bed. 

He leaned up against the headboard, stretching a little as Thomas tugged the wool blanket on top of Jimmy’s lap. They gained more warmth from each other than the fibres. 

“Me toast is gonna be black as coal tomorrow. You watch.” Jimmy declared. 

“That’s if we even get toast from now on.” Thomas reminded him, wondering if they’d have to start eating at a local pub until Daisy healed. 

“Yeah, well,” Jimmy snorted, “I know how to make a pot of tea.” 

He reached over to snag his jacket which lay thrown over Thomas’ beside table, fishing inside the pocket for a packet of Woodbine cigarettes which he pulled loose to offer to Thomas. For the first time in his life, Thomas refused a cigarette simply because he was ready to sleep and didn’t need the nicotine’s help. Jimmy seemed mildly impressed, putting the jacket back and giving him a coy smile as Thomas relaxed upon the headboard beside him. 

“Sod this.” Jimmy mumbled, “Can’t be comfortable with all these buttons-“ and he disrobed from his vest so that he was now only in shirttails in trousers. But his words had struck a chord with Thomas, who suddenly recalled that gold button with a black edge he’d managed to pick up right before his beating. He poked Jimmy in the thigh, gaining his attention to say, “Me trousers are in the drawers. Check the pockets.” 

Mildly intrigued, Jimmy clambered out of bed to hang his vest over the back of the bedside chair and search Thomas’ borrowed drawer set for his trousers. He found them in the second one down, folded alongside his damaged jacket. The fronts of his livery were missing, having been destroyed by blood and gravel and given up for lost by the nurse. Jimmy pulled Thomas’ trousers out, searching through the left pocket, then the right, to pause with a light hearted expression dawning upon his face as he drew his hand free. 

There, in the palm of his hand, was the button he’d sought all day. Jimmy glanced over at Thomas, unable to keep the grin off his carved lips. 

“… Productive day.” Thomas whispered. 

Jimmy pocketed the button in his own trousers to set Thomas’ aside and clamber back into bed. As he leaned in, kissing Thomas sweetly upon the lips in a goodnight fashion, Jimmy reached over and turned off the bedside light so that they were plunged into semi-darkness. When the nurse found them come morning, there would be hell to pay and Clarkson would be highly irritated, but neither of them cared as Jimmy wrapped his arm around Thomas’ back and pulled Thomas to his chest. A steady _thump, thump, thump_ filled his ear where it was pressed to Jimmy’s skin. 

Thomas would listen to that heartbeat all night, and he would continue to do so in the morning when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue left! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading/reviewing. Your comments mean the world to me. <3


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the epilogue for the work **Up the Garden Path**. There will be a sequel shortly forthcoming called **Down the Rabbit Hole**. Keep your eyes out for it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to personally thank everyone who has invested their time and reviews in this story. It has been such a pleasure to write, and I look forward to adding the second installment.

True to Mr. Carson’s word, Thomas returned home the very next day with Jimmy leading the way. He found his bed warm and ready, folded down by Mrs. Hughes with clean sheets. 

Dr. Clarkson had warned him that for a time being there would be a ‘ghost finger’ or so it was called, a symptom where despite no longer having a left pinky it would feel as if it was still there. So disorientated was Thomas that he couldn’t tell if he had seven fingers or seventy- and so all thoughts of ghost appendages slipped from his mind as Jimmy became his nurse maid and coaxed him back to health. Thomas stayed in bed for only two days, despite Carson’s insistence that he ought to let his face heal up more, and when he returned downstairs on the Friday he found the world much changed. 

Carson had never been Thomas’ friend nor fan, and to be fair he still wasn’t now. There were times when Thomas could sense the edge of irritation in Caron’s voice- such as when Thomas dropped the inventory clipboard three times in a row or interrupted the flow of decent conversation at dinner. The moment between them, so private it was only known to Jimmy, sat unspoken like an odd fluffy pillow for them both to relax upon. They were not friends but they were not enemies any more. They were co-workers, and for better or for worse they were on the same team when it came to keeping Downton running smoothly. Despite Thomas’ situation being awkwardly superfluous was also an incredible asset to Carson who still had a wedding to plan and Lady Mary to keep happy. At times the only words that would pass between them during the day were orders rendered and kept, but that didn’t matter. The animosity between them was gone, vanished like a puff of acrid smoke to be replaced by a breath of fresh air that had never been there before… and it seemed that Carson had taken a whole new shine to Thomas as one of the longest running staff members and the second in command to the entire house. 

Perhaps he’d forgotten amid William, Alfred, and Moseley that Thomas had been there before them. That Thomas had been there for fifteen years.   
He certainly wasn’t forgetting it now. 

There was a odd relaxed vibe in the air downstairs which Thomas had not felt truly in months. The Bates kept to themselves, Phyllis and Moseley were snug by the fire, Andy was hard at work scribbling out soppy love poetry on ginger biscuits and Jimmy dabbled at the piano. Now able to join him freely, Thomas sat at Jimmy’s side and relaxed with his eyes closed. A berceuse flitted through the air most nights, wafting through ears like good smells wafted to noses. The color purple and the smell of peppermint colored his worlds. 

Daisy was incredibly withdrawn which was only to be expected. Despite Jimmy’s initial thinking that their toast would be black as coal, or that they would receive no toast at all, toast came normally golden brown as ever with a side of jam and butter. No part of their meals was lacking, or malcontent. The only difference was that instead of receiving personal cups of tea, Thomas now drank from a communal pot with boring plain biscuits on his saucer. It might have been wrong to feel joy when Daisy was clearly so miserable, but Thomas felt as if he’d been given his life back. His emotions flexed from misery over his father, Margret, and Danny to warm contentment over Jimmy and the love they shared. The future was theirs to grasp now if they so desired. The only thing that stood in the way were their fears. 

There were times when it was difficult. Times when, late at night, he would stare at Margret’s headshot and fell his eyes begin to burn. It was in those moments that he would shed his blankets and search across the hallway for Jimmy’s door which would always be open and waiting for him. On the other side, in the comfortable gloom of Jimmy’s room, Thomas hid himself in Jimmy’s bed till the burning in his eyes stopped. Till the smell of peppermint soothed the clenching in his throat. 

Even so. He wondered of his sister and her sons… and if he would ever see them again. 

Thomas sat at the servant’s table, regarding his newly made leather glove. Instead of two exit holes, one was now sown up so act as a sordid stopper for the nub of his pinky. The flesh was still swollen and purple beneath the leather, he knew it would be for some time. The simple acts of taking up items in his left hand and holding them there were impossible to perform without difficulty. At the moment, while valets and ladies maids dressed their respective upstairs for bed, Thomas attempted to take up a teacup. Before he would have braced the handle with thumb and pointer finger so that his pinky could stretch out underneath. Now, Thomas had to hold the teacup with only his pointer finger. His thumb had to and ring finger had to do the wrapping- it was a bizarre grip and one that he could not fully complete so soon after surgery. As a result, the teacup kept slipping from his grip to drop with a loud thunk upon the table. 

He supposed he could simply use his other hand. But that would be taking the easy way out. 

Thomas let out a terse little sigh as the teacup dropped again, taking it back up with his good hand and attempting to reposition it in his cripple one. His fingers kept slipping upon the ceramic. 

As the teacup fell from his grip again, Thomas paused to take it up for a third time only to see an elongated shadow upon the floor. He looked up, hoping for Jimmy, but instead found Daisy slumped against the doorway with an empty tray cradled against her hip. 

There were deep shadows underneath her eyes; listless and cold they had none of their original warmth or spark. Thomas felt like a bastard as he realized just how much he’d robbed Daisy of her youth and vitality. Loving her had nearly cost him his life- it seemed the same could be said of him. 

“… There’s no tea in that teacup.” Daisy whispered, stating the obvious in a bland quiet. Thomas nodded, using his good hand to set it down. 

For a moment they simply stared at one another before Daisy went on to ask, “Why use it if it has no tea.” 

“I’m practicing.” Thomas answered, somehow finding the words to be cruel in and of themselves. How ironic they were, in light of everything. Thomas was suddenly rendered mute as Daisy blinked. 

She breathed slowly, the sound filling the room. 

“S’not very fair to the teacup is it?” Daisy glanced down at her tray. Thomas closed his eyes, the mere sight of her filling him with such guilt that he could hardly stand it. “But then, I suppose, that’s not your fault. You have to learn to hold it somehow.” 

Thomas glanced up, but found Daisy just as cold and dead as before despite the slight hope of her words. 

“… Daisy, I never meant to-“ Thomas began, but before he could finish the sound of footsteps brought him to a pause lest their private conversation be intruded upon. It didn’t help that the owner of the footsteps was none other than Jimmy, holding a letter in one hand and one of Branson’s old riding jacket’s in another. He scooted past Daisy in the doorway, the tension between them incredibly thick as Daisy’s eyes traced every sleek movement of Jimmy’s lithe figure. 

Thomas could see the hatred in her eyes, the loathing even. It made the sutures of his ghost appendage ache. 

Jimmy came around the table, sitting beside Thomas to lay Branson’s riding jacket on the table between them. 

“I wrote to Jack.” Jimmy explained, paying no mind to Daisy in the door as he unfolded the letter in his hands for Thomas to see, “His brother, Albert? He’s a doctor- well, a therapist really, but he still has medical practice and I told them about your pinky. He has some advice for us.” 

And Thomas leaned in to hear it all as Jimmy began to read aloud. Every so often he glanced up, checking to see if Daisy was in the doorway. 

The first two times, she was there, her eyes were full of contempt for the angelic little imp at Thomas’ side. 

One the third time Thomas glanced up, Daisy was gone.   
He did not look up again. 

 

_To Be Continued_


End file.
